Answering the Blizzard
by Hydroxide
Summary: Nature has always been about balance. Force is met by equal force, light by darkness, and freezing snow by the heat of summer. As Queen Elsa steps into her newfound freedom, pushing the limits of her magic, a long-forgotten power rises to answer her power with its own might. Now Arendelle teeters on the brink of war, as the clash of power threatens to rend the world itself apart.
1. Chapter 1: What I've Tasted of Desire

**Chapter 1: What I've Tasted of Desire**

* * *

The air shimmered as snowflakes danced around the palace courtyard, each one capturing the full brilliance of a joyous sunrise. Men and women, young and old, frolicked and traced circles on the frozen surface of the court with their skates, and the air tinkled with laughter.

At the centre of the makeshift rink, a pair of revelers cheered on a doubtful reindeer to stand on its feet.

"Come on, Sven!" Anna laughed as she bent to look him in the eyes. "Just slowly—legs together—up you go!"

Sven made a valiant effort, straightening up on all four legs. For a brief, shining moment he stood erect with his head held high in pride. Then he promptly collapsed in a heap of waving legs and matted fur.

Kristoff laughed. "Guess I learned faster than you, huh, Sven?" The mountaineer balanced himself on his own skates, albeit shakily. 'See? I can stay on my feet for a whole minute!'

"Alright now, big guy!" Anna smiled playfully, then gave Kristoff a gentle shove that promptly sent the big man sprawling next to the reindeer, his expression befuddled. Sven took one look at Kristoff's dazed face and started guffawing uncontrollably.

Anna giggled, balancing flawlessly on her own skates. "Oh my, you didn't last as long as I thought!"

Kristoff scowled, which made Sven go off on an even louder laughing fit. His frown quickly evaporated as Anna bent her knees, bringing her face level with his.

Gently, Anna pecked him on the cheek, and he felt blood rush to his cheeks and elation to his head.

"There you go." Straightening up gracefully, she beamed at the clumsy pair sprawled on the ice, before skating off in search of her sister.

"Heh. I'll take that as compensation, feisty-pants." Kristoff smiled, still flat on his back, watching Anna's slender figure move flawlessly across the ice, her dark green skirt fluttering gaily in her wake. It didn't matter how many kisses they shared, how many times they embraced. Each tender moment was as ecstatic and electrifying as the first time on the harbourfront when their lips met and their hearts blossomed.

He turned his head and met his reindeer's gaze—Sven was waggling his eyebrows.

* * *

Anna found Elsa at the foot of the steps to the palace, looking pensively across the courtyard full of Arendelle's citizens enjoying a day of fun on the ice. Her svelte figure was clad in a glittering bodice, a cape of pure ice trailing behind her dress. As the sun broke from behind a cloud, its rays illuminated Elsa's figure, and light glowed softly through the tessellations woven flawlessly into every inch of her outfit. The Snow Queen was she, beautiful, elegant and cold—and her sister as well, no longer afraid, no longer in denial of herself.

Elsa appeared deep in thought, her face lit up by the faintest of smiles. She turned ever so slightly, elegant as ever, as Anna skated up to her and stopped by her side.

"What'cha thinking about, Elsa?" Anna asked, drawing herself up to her full height to mimic her sister's regal pose, a wide smile still plastered over her face.

Elsa smiled. "It's just…beautiful." She was quiet again.

"What is?" Anna asked, her left arm slipping into the crook of her sister's arm, drawing the two of them closer. "What's beautiful?"

"Everything." Elsa whispered, her eyes glittering. "The open gates. The people. The laughter. The snow. Everything is beautiful."

Anna leaned her head against Elsa's shoulder. "It certainly is."

"And to think that half a year ago—" Elsa could not finish her sentence.

Anna gripped her sister tightly all of a sudden, a physical reflex to an emotional wound both siblings shared.

"Don't, Elsa," Anna whispered. _You are safe now. Safe and loved._

Both sisters locked eyes, and in that brief moment, all was understood.

"Elsa, I'm here. And I'll always be." Anna promised.

Elsa's eyes glittered like snowy pearls as the tears pooled under her lashes.

"And I promise,' she spoke, 'that I will never close the door again. To you or anyone I love."

And on the steps of the palace, both sisters embraced, their faces buried in each other's shoulder. Sharing the warmth of the bond between them, a bond newly formed after years of separation, yet burning brighter with each new day they spent together.

Wounds remained unclosed. Scars formed slowly. Bitter memories lingered. The aches and hurts of the years, the frigid loneliness of a decade-odd of isolation, all these were not and would never be melted away in an instant.

But in that shining minute, looking up at the sparkling sky as a million snowflakes billowed like airborne wishes and dreams, at the smiling happy faces around them, Elsa and Anna felt the happiest for the first time in forever.

"Oh Anna," Elsa breathed in, beaming brightly like the sun above. "It is all right. Everything is all right."

* * *

_'Some say the world will end in fire_

_Some say in ice_

_From what I've tasted of desire_

_I hold with those who favour fire._

_But if it had to perish twice,_

_I think I know enough of hate_

_To say that for destruction ice_

_Is also great_

_And should suffice.'_

_ -Robert Frost, _Fire and Ice

* * *

**With the relentless schedule of university life, I thought I'd never write fanfiction again unless a work of art appeared that was so compelling, so moving, as to inspire me to write again. That work was _Frozen_. I hope that you would enjoy reading this piece as much as I enjoyed writing it. **


	2. Chapter 2: The Fire Rises

_If you want a happy ending, that depends, of course, on where you stop your story.'_

_—Orson Welles_

* * *

**Chapter 2: The Fire Rises**

* * *

**The Western Isles**

**Brenton, capital city of Inis Teine**

**Three months ago**

The princes were solemn, yet vigilant in their decorum and deference, waiting patiently by the doorway to the chamber. The old man was frail and no longer left his bed, and the best doctors in the kingdom had agreed that nature could not be stopped from taking its course.

Yet the young men knew that their father's fire yet burned bright, and he would rule Teine from the grave were he given the chance to do so. Fintan, High King of Teine, Chief of the House of Canicus, was still their monarch, and he had called this council even if he had to preside over it from his deathbed.

The door opened slowly, almost noiselessly upon its hinges, and a hand clad in velvet grasped the doorknob on the other side to slow its momentum. The steward appeared, standing erect and regal, the only one permitted to do so in the presence of the king.

'His Majesty the King will see you now.' The steward intoned, his voice soft as the velvet uniform he wore, yet carrying over with unmistakable clarity to reach all eight princes clustered around the doorway.

They filed in, as tradition dictated, in their order of birth. The door closed softly behind them as the steward made his exit, waiting patiently beyond the threshold. The eight princes were now assembled in a line, yet remaining at the far end of the room, not one man among them daring to step forward and embrace their father or speak before he did. Their sorrow and sympathy for their ailing father could not take precedence over the centuries' clear demarcation between a king and his subjects.

'Conleth, my firstborn. Step forward.' King Fintan's voice was weak, but not devoid of power. The first prince stepped forth, his stride even and measured.

King Fintan fixed his gaze upon his firstborn son, never wavering. Then something seemed to soften and the lines upon the king's face drawn by hard years and tribulation relaxed and melted like battle-lines conceded.

'My boy, I will depart soon, and you will become king. Promise me that you will rule well in my stead.' Fintan spoke.

Conleth's reply was even, measured and without delay. 'I do so promise, Father King, and Noblest of the House of Canicus.'

Fintan nodded, and then motioned to the rest of his sons. The barriers of tradition had been lifted, and now all eight of his sires gathered closely around his bedside, bearing matching expressions of sorrow and grief.

'My sons, the House of Canicus must ever stand, and so must our dominion. And no greater threat has manifested than now, in the time of your rule and command.' Fintan spoke, glancing from son to son.

'You know of the Snow Queen of Arendelle. The witch whose powers plunged her own kingdom into a blizzard.'

The brothers exchanged glances of acknowledgement. The reports had come in.

It was the king who spoke again. 'Power, my sons and princes, is always based on balance. Thrusts and parries, moves and countermoves. Our kingdom grows this large for our neighbours dare not face the might of our army, and we in turn do not move against them for their tribute feeds that very same army.'

'The Snow Queen Elsa, by simply revealing herself, has done more than establish her rule. She has upset the balance, the balance of power that underpins the foundation of our world. For what answer may mere mortals give to a witch? What may we, strong though we are, do against the might of the blizzard?'

Prince Conleth offered. 'The kingdoms of the North are desirous of her affectations. And as our spymasters report, the pendulum of their favour swings inexorably from our empire to Arendelle.'

'What is your answer to this, then, my son?' King Fintan asked, his eyes now closed as if in deep thought.

'I believe that information and diplomacy is greater than any magic, or any show of military strength.' Prince Conleth proffered. 'I will establish networks in Arendelle and the kingdoms closest to her. As king, I will lay my hands on the threads that connect her kingdom to those around, threads too subtle for her to grasp, and wrench them out of her hands.'

'It may be so, my son.' The king responded, slowly and thoughtfully, his eyes still closed. 'It may be so. An answer to the storm, however poor, is better than none at all.'

Solemnly, Fintan exhorted. 'The balance must be maintained. The Snow Queen's magic must be met by our strength. As the winter grows, Teine must awaken. This I trust to you, my sons.'

He breathed softly, weak and fatigued. 'May the strength of Aodhfin, He of the Burning Spear, be yours to wield.'

King Fintan motioned for his sons to leave the room. They did so without hesitation, through the door that had been opened at just the right time by the somehow precognitive steward.

But halfway out the door, the very youngest prince, scarcely fourteen years of age, ventured to speak to his Father.

'Do…do you have an answer, Father? An answer to the Snow Queen?'

King Fintan had his head turned away from the door, his frame weary and still.

'I did once, my son.' He quivered.

His voice was tinged with regret stale and putrid, dug up from a time when things were very, very different.

'And I condemned him to death.'

* * *

Outside the chambers, Prince Conleth strode briskly away from the throng of his brothers, quickly ascending the staircase towards his private study. Quick, and almost as if by magic, a lean and gaunt face appeared from around the corner. The spymaster, bent with age and yet taller still than the prince, moved quickly in his wake. Neither said a word until the prince had entered the study, sat down wearily on the divan, and lit the only lamp on the table.

'Idris, I am going to need your advice.' The prince spoke first.

The flame threw a soft, orange glow across the bookshelves and chairs, and long shadows danced across the room, waving in time with the flickering of the lamp. Fittingly, the spymaster remained shrouded in darkness, with only half his face weakly illuminated.

'Good choice of counsel.' The shadowy figure replied, his smirk almost audible.

The prince smiled. Idris' behaviour often bordered on insolence, but it is hard to pull rank on a man who once took you over his knees as a child and paddled you mercilessly.

'Arendelle is a problem.' Conleth drew his hip flask and took a long draught. 'And I'm going to be king, so it'll be my problem.'

'And the lack of information bothers you.' Idris remarked adroitly.

Conleth nodded. 'I've got dossiers as thick as my backside on the the queen's trade partners. But Arendelle itself is a black hole.' He jabbed with his finger to make a point. 'I will have to deal with Arendelle and her queen, and soon. But I don't want to strike blind.'

Idris waited patiently in the transient silence. He in fact needed no further explanation—Conleth's eventual request could be seen coming from a mile away—but he liked using the short silences in their conversations to calculate the manpower and resources he would need to carry these requests out.

'I understand that the queen will be holding a festival two months from now, in celebration of Arendelle opening its gates to the world.' Conleth scratched his chin. 'I also understand that the Teine Empire has not received an invitation.'

'Predictable.' Idris remarked. 'We never repaired ties with the Nordic kingdoms. As you recall, they lost their last war with us 300 years ago. Decisively so. Though we've left them to their own devices ever since.'

'And Arendelle has never been important enough to warrant any sort of diplomacy. A bustling, prosperous port city, yes, but never a key player.' Conleth continued, 'With the queen, that changes. Everything changes.'

He rose from the divan, flask in hand. He sipped slowly before speaking.

'Sending an ambassador now—too risky. Even if the queen is ignorant, the Nords have a long memory on these matters.' The prince drank once more, wetting his lips. 'Blood feuds run deep. National enmity runs deeper.'

Conleth put down the flask. 'The world would see a great empire, a former enemy, paying homage to a queen and her little kingdom. Her standing would only improve, while ours deteriorates—particularly if she chooses to reject our advances.'

Idris nodded. _Real diplomacy is more complicated than that, boy, but your logic is sound._

Conleth concluded his train of thought. 'And should the queen defy us, the neighbouring kingdoms would likely join her. They would be emboldened too—we have not pursued expansionism for over two centuries.'

His lips drew taut and he slammed his hand down on the armrest. 'Then I'll be fighting the second Teine-Nordic war—this time against a queen commanding the wind and sky.'

Conleth sighed, completing his assessment. 'Just my lot to be king at a time like this.'

There was a long pause, in which the prince remained deep in thought and Idris remained motionless, waiting, calculating.

'We need someone in there, one way or another. We need an ear to the ground in Arendelle.' Conleth mused. 'But with a diplomatic party out of the question…'

He looked straight at the spymaster. 'Idris, you have an idea.'

'Quite right, my prince.' Idris nodded. 'The kingdom of Auvernia is sending an ambassadorial party to Arendelle for the festival. I propose that we include one of our representatives in their entourage—as an 'expression of interest.' Trade with us is their lifeblood. They will not object.'

The spymaster licked his lips. 'We'll show Arendelle that we're willing to do business, but make it clear that we aren't clamouring for the new queen's favour beyond her potential as a new trade partner. It strikes the right tone, doesn't it?'

Conleth smiled blandly. 'Yes. But I've got a feeling that you're not sending just one 'representative.'

'Of course not.' Idris waved dismissively. 'We'll have a 'security entourage' escorting Auvernia's party. The northern waters are treacherous after all—a convenient excuse.'

'And this entourage will consist of your…' The prince cocked his head. '…disposable assets?'

'My hand-picked ones. All complete with false papers, no ties to us, and promised payment upon completion of this assignment. On the surface, they would simply be privateers and mercenaries hired for security. Of course, my enforcers will also be there to ensure that these assets are—disposed of—if necessary.' Idris smiled.

'Understood.' Conleth arose, pocketing his flask. 'I leave the entire operation to you. You have the full funds of the treasury at your disposal. Meet me two months from now and brief me on your findings.'

The eldest prince straightened his uniform, strode out of the study, and headed to join his brothers downstairs in commiseration for their ailing father.

Idris moved closer to the lamp, reclining in the divan previously occupied by the prince. A plan was coming together. Ships to be purchased off the black market. Contacts to be notified. Documents to be forged. People to be bought.

He drew out the ledger from his coat pocket. The reading glasses in his shirt pocket were just for show, and lay untouched. His eyes were as sharp now at seventy-five as they were at twenty.

'Let's see who we have.' He muttered to himself. _The prince might not have the stomach to spill blood, but it takes a certain kind of man to get a certain kind of result._

The ledger was full of desperate men and women from all over the isles and mainland who, at the end of their line, traded the certainty of death at the gallows with the uncertainty of life in the Teine secret service. Fully deniable, fully expendable assets, they were the dagger the Teine Empire wielded under the table when the sword was put aside in the name of 'peace.' The kingdom had not stood for five hundred years by the might of soldiery alone. A convenient 'accident,' a letter gone missing, a surreptitious bribe passed into the pockets of a complicit official—and Teine was on top of the game of thrones once more.

He ran his finger down the list, and paused at one entry.

Henrik Veicht, forty-one years old. Felon, fugitive, murderer; sentenced to death by hanging. Seven successful assassinations to date.

He did not need to read the rest. He knew the entry by heart.

Idris was more interested, however, in the name listed below Veicht's—his protégé of seven years, taken under his wing from a life of roving and aimlessness, or so he claimed. A young lad, all of twenty five years old.

He read the lad's chosen alias, and scoffed. _What a heroic name._ Suebian in origin, discordant and stilted, full of the improper and immodest invincibility of youth. Idris knew for a fact that this lad was about as Suebian as the spymaster himself.

The boy's credentials were solid. Yet Idris was choosing him not for his capability at espionage, reliable though he was. He eyed another, far less well known quality, one unique and possibly dangerous—and even more possibly, useful. A pressure point as well as an advantage, one that Idris had used for seven years to keep him in the empire's pay, a wild card in Idris' varied and limitless deck for the risky game of subterfuge.

'A certain kind of man to get a certain kind of result.' Idris repeated, this time out loud.

He folded the ledger up.

'Well, it's high time somebody got a promotion.'

The spymaster blew out the lamp and strode out of the room. He had a few letters to send.

* * *

**There comes a feeling right before introducing an OC that reminds me of submitting an assignment to a stony-faced professor. You obsess over every little detail, fret over and over, and in both cases you know that your target audience has read hundreds upon hundreds of pieces just like yours.**

**Thank you for reading thus far, and I hope you're enjoying how things are going! I'll be indulging in some world building as I go along, trying to paint along the margins of where the movie and its associated art has established the setting of the Frozen universe. I am really, really not used to writing fanfiction, so if you are reading this, even if it's just in between browsing other stories, your opinion and feedback is very valuable to me. Please leave a comment if you like my story, or if you think I can improve. Thank you for your time!**


	3. Chapter 3: Alea Iacta Est

**Chapter 3: Alea Iacta Est**

* * *

**Arendelle**

'This was an excellent idea, Your Majesty.' Prime Minister Henningsen watched the final preparations for the coming festival.

'Thank you, prime minister.' The queen assented, her hands crossed demurely over her dress, her eyes moving over the bright town square.

Arendelle was ablaze in colours. Bright green and purple banners streamed across buildings and the town square. Arendelle's crocus gleamed yellow on flags and standards. The smell of fresh flowers wafted across every street and lane.

But it was the people who brightened up Arendelle the most. People, of every age and class, mingling in the town square, sharing in laughter and gaiety. And in the bright rays of midmorning sunshine, the aura of anticipation and shared pride was palpable—Arendelle was ready to welcome the world!

'I have good news, by the way, Your Majesty.' Prime Minister Henningsen retrieved a folded letter from his coat pocket, neatly stamped with the insignia of the kingdom of Corona. 'Their Majesties the King Michal and the Queen Maria have announced Corona's delegation.'

'The Princess Rapunzel and her husband Eugene Fitzherbert will be coming.' He concluded, his handlebar mustache curving upwards with a broad smile.

Elsa felt a thrill of delight. 'That's wonderful!'

Though never meeting them personally, the stories of the lost princess and the handsome rogue who rescued her from a life of isolation had reached far and wide. She had marveled at Rapunzel's bravery, and at her now-husband's abandonment of his wild and adventurous life in place of the dream they shared.

With a small bittersweet pang, Elsa recalled the dark nights before her coronation, struggling with the suffocating loneliness and fear, where every detail of the princess' amazing journey had become beacons of light to illuminate Elsa's own heart. Rapunzel's story had granted her courage, and she had wished fervently that they could have met during Elsa's coronation. She was glad to have a second opportunity.

'The princess adds her own message.' Henningsen continued, as his smile broadened from Elsa's contagious delight. 'She writes, 'I look forward to meeting Anna again! We've had such a great time exploring Arendelle. And you of course! I have heard so much about you and I can't wait to hear everything from you in person. And your astronomy tower! I heard that Arendelle has the clearest skies in the north!' And then she continues,' the prime minister muffled his mirth, as Elsa giggled, 'in a glowing description of our kingdom and its delights. I do believe relations with Corona will go splendidly henceforth.'

'And what of her dashing husband?' Elsa inquired, raising her eyebrows.

'Ah. Well, the reformed rogue was significantly more prosaic.' Henningsen answered slyly. 'He writes, 'On my honour, Your Majesty, I promise that nothing precious will 'accidentally' go missing from Arendelle. I'm not that kind of guy anymore. However, as we are also bringing Maximus along, I'm afraid I can't account for the apples.''

Elsa chuckled, covering her mouth daintily. 'Well, Maximus may have all the apples he wishes. As befits the captain of the guard!'

Prime Minister Henningsen was about to respond with an equally jovial remark, but the distant blast of a ship's horn caught their attention.

'The delegation from Auvernia has arrived!' The guard called from the harbour.

'Excellent!' Henningsen jumped to attention, straightening the lapels on his jacket. 'If I may, Your Majesty, I will take my leave. Will be down to meet our guests.' He bowed low, and Elsa acknowledged with a nod of her own.

As Henningsen walked towards the dock, Elsa remained in the town square, soaking in the sunlight.

She started as a pair of arms linked around her waist, then softened as she recognised the satin green sleeves they were clad in. She smiled. 'Good morning Anna.'

'Morning sis.' Anna yawned. 'If you don't mind, I'm going to cling on to you until I warm up.'

'Warm up? Anna, it's the _Snow Queen_ you're hugging.' Elsa could not suppress a giggle.

'Mmphhh.' Anna buried her face in her sister's shoulder.

They remained in companionable silence for minutes. Elsa's hands drifted to grasp her sister's.

'Hey Anna.' Elsa murmured. 'I've been thinking, about what you said last night.'

'Mm?' Her sister grunted inquisitively.

'About how there might be others like me.'

Elsa felt Anna's head lift off her shoulder. 'Yeah?'

The queen continued. 'What if they went through the same things I did? Maybe even worse? What if there are many more—like me—who had to hide their whole lives?' She breathed in deeply. 'Or worse, what if they tried to hide—and _failed_?'

Elsa paused, as the memories rushed back, still carrying their blunted sting. 'You saw how the Duke of Weselton—'

'_Weaseltown._' Anna hissed angrily. The absolute belligerence of the little man still rankled.

'—yes, well, you saw how he acted when he saw what I could do. What if that was how he had treated people like me, back in Weselton? Imagine innocent people, children even, hunted down, forced to hide. Concealing. Not letting it show.'

She bit her lip. 'And what if the rest of the world was like that? What if what I had to go through—those years of being alone in my room—was the _best thing _compared to what those just like me have to endure?'

Her sister's embrace tightened. 'Elsa…'

'I've decided.' The queen straightened up. 'I will make an official announcement, for our kingdom and all our guests.'

'I will open Arendelle's gates, not just to the world, but to those like me. They may come here and be safe. I'll make sure they won't have to hide or conceal anymore. Arendelle will welcome those whom the rest of the world has rejected.' Her palms curled into fists, but her expression was one of determination rather than anger.

'I want to give them,' and here Elsa choked back tears—of pain, and of joy. 'I want to give them what you have given me. Love. And a home.'

She turned to face Anna.

'What do you think?'

Anna smiled lovingly. Her own eyes were moist. 'Elsa, I think that's wonderful.'

They hugged tightly, blonde hair tumbling amidst red. In the precious intimacy, words were no longer needed. Anna understood her sister completely. _You don't have to keep your distance anymore._

'Elsa, you haven't discussed this with Prime Minister Henningsen yet, have you?' Anna piped up.

'Nope.' Elsa smiled, moving deeper into the embrace.

And above them, as if in chorus, a flock of seagulls squawked as they soared in the light of the northern sunrise.

* * *

**Four hours ago**

**Aboard the schooner **_**Quidel**_

_Hansel was embracing the body of a young, lithe lady, her arms entwined around his neck, when she promptly reared up and kicked him in the head._

He awoke. 'Umph!'

'Rise and shine, captain.' Jansen's raspy voice rang out from above him. 'Nothing like a knock in the head to start the day.'

Hansel pushed himself sleepily into a sitting position, and bumped his head against the top bunk.

'Make that two.' Jansen grunted, his smile almost audible.

He massaged the tender spot grumpily. 'What time is it?' Hansel rubbed the sleep from his eyes. The air was cold and sleepy, and moved sluggishly through his lungs.

'Four o'clock, Nordic time.' Jansen answered.

'And you're awake _now_?'

'The sky's awake, so I'm awake.' Jansen answered matter-of-factly. 'It's sunrise. Let's play.'

Hansel hauled himself to his feet. Then the first wave of pain hit him.

He winced. He waited. The sensation radiated down the length of his right arm, clumping in his fingers, and his joints burned. He let his arm hang loose. It would pass, like it always did, but it was never easy. This time, however, the pain did not simply creep—it raged. His arm was on fire.

Jansen's expression changed from indifference to concern. 'The burning? How is it?'

'Worse.' Hansel hissed through gritted teeth. _Must be the weather. The cold is not helping things._

The first mate rummaged through his pockets. 'Here.' He passed Hansel a wad of some dried leaf. 'Been saving it for any emergency shipside surgery, but I guess this counts. Pop it in, chew slowly.'

Hansel pinched the flaky leaves with his free hand and stuffed them eagerly into his mouth. He chewed, held them under his tongue. The leaves were acrid and bitter. Within a minute of chewing, the storm raging down his right arm had diminished to a faint throbbing. He flexed his fingers and found that they could move once more, albeit stiffly.

'Better. Thanks.'

'No problem.' Jansen glanced out of the cabin door. 'But get yourself in working condition quick. I'll be on deck.' With that, he strode out of the door, and Hansel could hear him barking orders at the shipmates.

The captain dressed quickly, and slipped on his boots. They had turned cold in the Nordic air, like everything else in the ship. Before putting on his glove, he spared an inspection of his arm.

To the casual observer, Hansel carried a ruined arm at his side. Reddish, ugly, blistered skin wrapped around the bones and muscles, and blackened eschar lined his knuckles. A thick leather glove wrapped his arm all the way up to his elbow, presumably to protect the tender blisters from further injury.

Hansel knew better. For _protection_, yes. His own, not exactly.

He strapped on the glove, then pulled down the sleeve to cover the remaining exposed length of arm. Time to get to work.

* * *

They tailed the Auvernian convoy for the next two hours before sighting land. The rest of the 'security attaché' followed in their wake. The both of them were now clad in Auvernian uniforms—purple, regal, and absolutely impractical.

'So this is how they lost the war.' Jansen murmured, tugging at his stiff collar.

Hansel absently patted the waistcoat, feeling the two oblong weapons tucked underneath. 'Let's hope we don't need these newfangled things. Unstable, and loud as hell. Wish we could have brought crossbows.'

'They have one advantage though.' Jansen riposted. 'You can't walk into Arendelle with a crossbow under your jacket.'

'Point taken.' Hansel acknowledged. Against the front of his slightly overlarge coat, the weapons left almost no visible imprint.

The sea was level as far as the eye could see. A steady wind raked the water gently. Beside them, two ships sailed parallel, their size dwarfing the diminutive _Quidel._

'Arendelle must be right ahead.' Jansen remarked. 'Wonder if we'll have any fun portside.'

'I'm sure we will, festival and all.' Hansel answered. 'But don't forget. We're on a schedule here.'

'Not only that, the spymaster fella made _you _captain of our little ship! Your first command!' Jansen elbowed his captain on the shoulder. 'Great things, mark my words. The legend of Hansel Falkenrath will ascend ever higher with this one more completed assignment.'

Hansel grunted, although he couldn't prevent a smile from creeping up his face. Idris was an enigma, but if one thing was for certain, the wily spymaster never rewarded for its own sake. _Trust him like you would trust an adder around your neck_, a former associate had advised. Still, the feeling of command proved uplifting all the same.

'I get to command the _Quidel_ up until we dock at Arendelle, that's all. Captain Veicht is still in charge overall. We answer to him, never you forget.' Hansel admonished.

'And there he is,' Jansen gestured at the brig moving parallel to the opposite end of the convoy, 'the _Fischandler_, all proud and stuffed to the gills with Veicht's 'enforcers.' I don't know why he bothers. We're scoundrels, but we're not stupid; we'll get the bloody job done and get paid. That's all there is to it.'

'Certainly hope so.' Hansel continued gazing at the horizon. The sun was breaking out from behind a cloud. For a few moments, the frigid sea shone like molten glass in orange heat.

'They say their queen is beautiful. Dressed in snowy white, enchanting like a goddess.' Hansel muttered. 'Would certainly be a sight, after these weeks of sea and sea and sea.'

'They also say she is a monstrous being of ice and snow. Freeze you where you stand! Impale you on icicles!' Jansen intoned in mock melodrama.

'First-wife memories, Jansen?' Hansel ribbed.

'Ach. Her heart was colder than the backside of a troll.' Jansen picked his nose. The two men shared a short laugh.

'But my point being that you've got to be careful this assignment.' Jansen was serious again. 'Festival or no festival, the queen ruffled the feathers of quite a few important people. People who have long memories and deep pockets. The gates are open, and all bets are likely off. Don't get cocky.'

Hansel scoffed. 'When Weselton and the Southern Isles learn to run covert operations half as competent as ours, I'll be worried. Till then, a job's a job, Snow Queen or not. We get there, set down a network, and get communications going. Things settle down, Idris sends over some permanent replacements, we'll be on our way. Richer too, seeing as he's paying by the week.'

'Hope you're right. There's Arendelle!' Jansen pointed, as the mist parted ahead.

The city rose from the water like a shimmering citadel out of a fairy tale, towers and walls standing proud above the northern sea. Flags billowed in the wind from atop the ramparts, and the hilltop shone in the morning sun, light gleaming off the roofs of the numerous houses dotting the hillside.

'My word, is she beautiful.' Hansel breathed.

'Queen or city?' Jansen jabbed.

* * *

Prime Minister Henningsen waited patiently at the dock as the ship drew near. The lilac crest of Auvernia fluttered briefly in the sea breeze. On deck, he could spot the purple uniforms of the royal guard, standing in formation.

Henningsen turned his attention to the convoy moored offshore. While the flagship bore the reputable craftsmanship of Auvernian shipwrights, its escorting vessels were of cruder, older designs, and carried signs of significant past damage patched up with assorted salvage. Though every ship flew the Auvernian colours, Henningsen guessed the reality.

_Privateers. _His smile waned. _As I thought. The royal navy is nonexistent._

Auvernia had never truly recovered from its civil war a hundred years ago. Despite their façade of continued parades and yearly banquets, Henningsen knew that their economy remained in shambles and their army was little more than a ceremonial guard. Hiring mercenaries was perhaps the best they could do under the circumstances.

_Perhaps this marks the beginning of new and better times. For us both. _Henningsen mused.

In any case, no other vessel apart from the flagship attempted to dock. Henningsen was relieved; Arendelle would tolerate royal guards, but certainly not mercenaries. As the large vessel glided gently into port, he made ready to welcome the Auvernian delegation.

The gangplank lowered.

A burly, dour figure stepped forward, embellished in the tassels and medals of the Auvernian royal court.

'Welcome to Arendelle!' Henningsen greeted. 'Prime Minister Gustaf Henningsen, at your service.' He bowed low.

'My pleasure, prime minister.' The ambassador replied, offering a stiff bow in return. 'I am Lord Auguste Firmin, and I represent Auvernia and her interests. My sincere congratulations to the queen for the coming festival.' His severe expression never relaxed, and he looked off to the side rather than at Henningsen.

_And we're off to a good start,_ Henningsen thought bitterly. Despite now feeding on the scraps of the Teine Empire, Auvernia still carried the annoying air of cultural superiority, a relic of a bygone age where they had ruled over half of the Gallia region.

A second man had stepped off the gangplank; shorter, leaner, and dressed in scarlet rather than purple. Even before the _triskelion _on his uniform registered, Henningsen knew who he represented, and his eyes narrowed.

'This is Morcant mac Nuallan, and he represents the Teine Empire. He has graciously offered to accompany us. We hope you would be able to accommodate.' Lord Firmin waved dismissively, as if humouring a servant rather than addressing the second-highest command in Arendelle.

Had Henningsen been thirty years younger, he would have sent both men tumbling into the water with a single punch. _You brought a former enemy onto our shores without prior notice. This is damn near an act of war._

Instead, the prime minister of Arendelle smiled stiffly and insincerely. 'We will do our very best to ensure that your visit is pleasant. Do note that mister Morcant—'_Teine honorifics be damned_—'is to be dressed in Auvernian garb henceforth, to identify himself with your party. The presence of an officer of the Teine Empire may be—distressing—for many of our Nordic guests.'

The lean man seemed to register the slight, and his lips curled upwards. 'Of course. Whatever you may require.'

Henningsen nodded, and gave a sweeping wave towards Arendelle's bustling town square. 'Please! Politics may wait. Our queen has prepared a joyful occasion to celebrate the beginning of our new age. The festival begins tomorrow. Do come along and I will show you to your lodgings.'

'Most impressive, most impressive.' Lord Firmin spoke slowly and condescendingly. 'If at any time you require our assistance, please do not hesitate to let me know.'

Inwardly, the prime minister could think of several things, none of them pleasant.

Outwardly, the prime minister beamed. 'Only that you enjoy the festival to its fullest. And once more, welcome to Arendelle!'

* * *

Hansel followed closely in the ambassador's wake. Beside him, Jansen marched uncomfortably, still straining at the stifling fabric of his collar.

They were not armed, at least not outwardly; they had made a big show of dropping their sabers and halberds on deck as a sign of confidence. In truth, each of them was armed with at least a flintlock coat pistol and a dagger. Hansel hoped that Arendelle honoured the tradition of the 'diplomatic pouch,' to not subject their party to body searches. The last thing Idris would be pleased with was one of their new weapons falling into Nordic hands. The 'black powder,' even the crude stuff they allowed their mercenaries to purchase—rather than the high-grade powder the Teine military was producing—was still supposed to be a secret best revealed in war rather than in peace.

'Looks like a fun place to be.' Jansen muttered, barely audibly.

They had arrived in the town square. Banners and flags adorned every house and shop, and streamers and fresh flowers decorated the streets in explosions of colour. Murals graced the walls and facades of the buildings, depicting scenes of intricate snowflakes dancing amidst mountain scenery.

Hansel eyed 'Morcant' as he kept pace with Lord Firmin and Prime Minister Henningsen. It was almost unnerving—the swaggering walk and perpetual sneer had been replaced entirely by a flawless picture of sophistication and aristocracy, down to the subtle swing of his arms and the occasional adjustment of his monocle. There was a reason why they called Henrik Veicht the best at what he did—he blended into his character completely, putting on and discarding deep-set mannerisms and attitudes as if they were clothing.

_Well, he's the real thespian in our little scheme. I just have to look stern and march around. _

'Here we are.' Prime Minister Henningsen stopped in front of a large building with a raised roof slanting sharply downwards to both sides. 'Welcome to Krokus Inn.'

'Thank you, prime minister. That will be all.' Lord Firmin stepped into the inn without a backward glance at Henningsen, who was looking increasingly miffed.

_Winning friends everywhere he goes, _Hansel thought of Firmin, as he followed suit and stepped into the building.

* * *

His room was comfortable, albeit small. Then again, Henrik Veicht had gotten used to the feeling of sleeping on cold damp wood aboard a ship tossed about the wind. The one advantage of twenty years of roving, was that every little treat to be had on land was a luxury in and of itself.

He had stripped off his stifling Teine uniform, and was clad in his undershirt and pants. His enforcers guarded the door. He would not be interrupted.

He raised the mug to his lips and gulped down another sip, grimacing—Arendelle may be famous for its chocolate, but its breweries had far less claim to fame. He examined Idris' instructions again. Clear, precise, unquestionable.

Every man in his personal contingent had received the same instructions. Veicht had used Idris' cash allocation to hire those with precisely the sort of bloodthirsty, soulless qualities that would make the assignment a success. He did not expect them to survive the encounter—then again, they knew next to nothing about their true employers. The remainder of the fund he had spent on the new weapons appearing on the black market, small bits and pieces leaking out from the well-oiled Teine war machine. They may not be either accurate or efficient. But they were loud—and they were messy. Two qualities to ensure maximum impact and visibility.

For Idris and the Teine Empire, a harsh but necessary blow. For Veicht, a final payment that would set him for life.

He was willing to bet that his young protégé—capable, yes, but naïve and untempered—had received a wholly different set of instructions. He was glad. Veicht regarded him as expendable—precious and a quick learner, yes, but sentiment was cheap—yet all the same, thought it fitting that the lad would be nowhere near the scene when the act was done. And more importantly, that the boy's conscience would not be tarred by the brutality of participating in such an act.

He folded up the letter, and whimsically sent a mental note to Hansel, likely slumbering in his room at the opposite end of the inn.

_I'm sorry my boy, but you simply lack the stomach for this._

_You can steal, aye. As sneaky a lad as ever. You make use of potions and concoctions like nobody else I know. And you can hold your own in a fight, that's for sure. A better fighter than most men I command._

_But you don't have what it takes for this._

_You don't have the guts to strike at the Snow Queen and her kingdom as deeply as we soon will._

* * *

**If you are still reading thus far, thank you for your support and your interest. Even if you don't leave a comment or favourite, every view here represents someone taking the time to enjoy my story, and having you here is a privilege.**

**A PLEA FOR FEEDBACK**

**If you are interested in leaving a review, I would really appreciate it if you could point out any areas of improvement, or things you'd like to see more of. There are a few areas I especially _crave _feedback on.**

**1\. Faithfulness to character: I aspire to make each and every canon character completely in-character consistent with the movie. From attitudes, beliefs and experiences, down to mannerisms, speech and little quirks, I want to be as faithful as possible to the original source material. If you feel that some parts could use some polishing, or that something strikes you as being OOC, I would appreciate the help with pointing it out.**

**2\. Cultural and national sensitivity: This tale takes place in what could best be described as a parallel universe, in which magic plays a pivotal role and where history developed in a vastly different direction; it's where I imagine many of Disney's magic-heavy movies take place. As such, I have tried to build imaginary nations and cultures with some (liberal) inspiration from the real world; Arendelle's culture obviously takes heavily after Norway, the Teine Empire I imagined to be a warlike conglomerate of Celtic culture, and Auvernia I made an imaginary city-state after the Averni in Roman-era France (OK, yes I play Total War.) **

**Having said that, I have touched upon real cultures and histories with my story, and while I have taken some very liberal license with their representation here, I really want your feedback if any of these is your culture or country of origin. If at any point you feel that I have seriously committed a cultural faux pas, or made a non-English name that means something like 'Duck Face' in the original tongue, please, please leave a review so that I can rescue this. Your insight is extremely valuable to me.**

**3\. Writing Dialogue: Writing dialogue has been a major challenge for me, even more so in capturing the subtle mannerisms and speech patterns of existing canon characters. If you have insight on how Elsa, Anna, Kristoff, or any of the canon characters best speak, and feel that I can improve on, please do leave a review.  
**

**4\. Marty-Fricking-Stu: Here it comes. But seriously, if you feel that my OC could benefit from additional (heavy) character development, or if you think I'm going off on a tangent, please let me know. I will carve my OC up and mangle everything he loves.**

**5\. If you like it: Please let me know! :)**

**Thank you, thank you, and thank you!**


	4. Chapter 4: The Frozen Festival

**Chapter 4: The Frozen Festival**

* * *

**Arendelle Castle**

**Sunrise, the next day**

The open courtyard lay in the shadow of Arendelle Castle, enclosed by high walls. The air was cool, the atmosphere fresh with the scent of morning. From the open gates, a narrow spear of sunlight divided the shaded square on both sides.

Soon, the guests began to arrive. Diplomats bedecked in medals and accompanied by a train of attendants. Princes and princesses, adorned with the trappings of royalty, images of sophistication and regality. Foreign visitors, friends or family of the more distinguished guests, mingling freely in the courtyard with the citizens of Arendelle. The odd inquisitive visitor popped in, not at all dressed for the occasion and looking out of place, but welcomed all the same.

And while they clustered according to their region of origin, or according to family, or simply sticking with those they felt comfortable with, no guests had special claim above the rest; royalty stood freely next to common folk, and cabbage sellers struck up conversations with wives of distinguished ambassadors.

Guards ringed the courtyard, standing erect, but their expressions were light and welcoming, their stance easy and relaxed. No weapons were allowed in the palace, but while they scanned the throng of visitors entering the courtyard, none of any sort was seen. The day was one of joy.

While conversation proceeded smoothly as boisterous children chased each other around the courtyard, all eyes were on the balcony. All awaited the one Queen they had come to see.

* * *

Behind the closed door to her balcony, Elsa stood in the cool dimness of her room.

_This is all too familiar._

She glanced up at the portrait of her late father. Beloved Haakon, former King of Arendelle, frozen in time at the moment of his coronation, holding the emblems of kingship. His expression benevolent, his gaze focused.

Memories rushed back. Memories of a coronation turning into a night of cold and wind. Of freedom, and loss. And then of restoration. And finally those memories return full circle to this very room, where it all began. Back to this very room, in front of her dear father.

_What must you think of me?_

Elsa placed her hands at the edge of the table under the portrait. The candlestick and jar were still there. Still smeared with the marks of frost.

_Be the good girl you always have to be._

She could hear his voice still.

_Conceal it. Don't feel it._

_Don't let it—_

_No._

She looked up at the image of her father. And this time, while she perched on the very edge of self-doubt, she heard his voice come through again. Strong and true, no longer the dim echo of her memory, but as clear as the tolling of the chapel bells.

_You were afraid of turning into what I feared you would become._

_Instead, you have become someone I would have never imagined you grow into._

_Free. Confident. A true queen of Arendelle._

'But what if I stumble and fail again?' Elsa whispered. She sat by the table, resting her palms on her chest, trying to quell the pounding of her heart.

Memories arose unbidden. A sea of confused, frightened faces. A sister doubled over in pain and heartache, streaks of white piercing her red hair. The cold cheek of an icy corpse, frozen in suspension.

Elsa blinked back tears. _So much fear._ Like pitch, clinging to the edges of her mind. Staining the paths she trailed around her room in self-imposed solitary confinement. Like streaks of tar, blistering the otherwise immaculate walls of the ice palace she built in the night she let it go.

As she struggled, she realised that a different, quiet source of strength was welling inside her.

Her father's inner voice was mingled now with another, strange and unfamiliar and yet not so strange, firm, resolute and old, like an aged boulder that had weathered the storm and sea and come through unbowed. A long-forgotten spirit lost to memory.

_Pain is inevitable._

_Failure is unavoidable._

_Fear will always be your enemy._

She bit her lip. But something else welled up within her, like a fire sputtering to life.

_Yet courage is found in spite of fear. Success is built from the stones of failure. Growth is the permanent result of temporary pain._

Her fears, inverted.

_There is danger in your power. But also great beauty._

The freedom of liberation.

_Let it go._

When she looked back up at the portrait, her gaze was resolute and firm. Her heart, while still in turmoil, was set on the path she had chosen.

The last voice of doubt reared its head.

_What about my decision to open Arendelle's gates to those like me? _

_What will this mean? What will Arendelle become as a result of this one, irreversible decision?_

But the voice that answered it, the voice that quelled her fear, came not from the memory of her father, or the even more distant memory of an ancient and forgotten voice in the woods. It was her own, spoken voice, ringing loudly in the silence of her room.

'That,' Elsa said, 'is up to me.'

There was a knock on the door.

'Elsa, it's me.' It was Anna.

Elsa opened the door. Anna stood nervously at the door, her hair done up in a bun; her off-the-shoulder dress was verdant green, revealing the gold pendant of Arendelle. She shifted jumpily from one foot to the other, biting her lip, her hands clasping and unclasping. Beneath her regal exterior—or what passed for it—Elsa knew that Anna was perhaps even more nervous than herself.

But that was Anna—quirky, bubbly, excitable, awkward, loving, fiery, and caring all at once. Their love had thawed a frozen heart. And as the two sisters shared a tender gaze, they knew that the same love would quell a heart beating in fear and uncertainty.

'Ready, sis?' Anna asked breathlessly.

Elsa smiled and nodded.

And clad in their coronation attire, bearing centuries of tradition and history, the queen and princess of Arendelle strode confidently towards the doors to the palace balcony.

* * *

Hansel loitered comfortably on the roof of the palace courtyard, scanning the crowd below. Behind the shadow of a stave taller than he was, he kept a firm grip on a rusted metal grate for support.

But his feet were planted confidently on the gentle slope of the roof, his stance free of fear. The years spent roving with Veicht had long since scraped off his childhood fear of heights. His cloak and hood, dull grey, melded with the colour and consistency of his surroundings—he was sure that he was not seen.

_Not least while they're all looking at one direction. For one person, to be exact. _Hansel thought, his eyes moving to the palace balcony. The queen was yet to appear.

His attention was first captured by two figures standing at the front of the crowd. One was a large man, clad in what looked like mountain attire. The other, strangely enough, was a reindeer, sitting calmly with an expression of—_rapt attention? Reindeer can do that? _Hansel shook his head. Arendelle was queerer than he had expected.

He resumed his scanning of the courtyard. He spotted a few familiar faces—_none of which would be pleased to see me_, he thought wryly—of nobles and officers from the various Nordic kingdoms. He couldn't recognise most of the royalty—many were obviously princes of leisure, little involved in the nuts and bolts of their kingdoms. Then there was a young lady with short brown hair in a lavender dress, talking excitedly to the man beside her, likely her fiancé or husband.

Hansel squinted. Something seemed very familiar about the man.

Then a collective gasp and murmur came from the crowd, and Hansel turned to the palace balcony. A cheer rang out as the double doors opened.

His breath caught.

She was _beautiful_.

Queen Elsa of Arendelle stepped forward onto the balcony, her whitish-blonde hair braided elegantly over her left shoulder, framing her pale and slender face. Her bright blue eyes gleamed as if illuminated by starlight—even from a considerable distance, Hansel's own eyes were drawn irresistibly to hers. Her purple cape and greenish-blue dress, while conservative, did nothing to conceal her svelte and sensual figure.

Hansel looked away. _Idiot. What are you, fifteen?_

He looked back, and only now noticed the queen's sister, the crown princess, standing by her side, and waving joyfully to the crowd. The queen gracefully raised her hand motioning for silence, and the crowd went quiet, now listening with eager anticipation.

Hansel mentally slapped himself back to attention. _She's going to speak. Now keep your eyes and ears open._

'People of Arendelle, and our beloved guests from the lands beyond,' the queen began, 'it is my great honour to welcome you to our very first Frozen Festival!'

A cheer went up from the crowd, and many of the visiting guests applauded enthusiastically.

_No demure young thing is she, _Hansel thought. _Her voice is gentle and elegant, but I can hear her even from here. _Then again, perhaps the architecture of the courtyard amplified—_shut up she's speaking again—_

'Today marks the very first day of our celebrations; today, Arendelle welcomes the world through its open gates. Today, citizens and guests alike, we celebrate everything that Arendelle is and always will be!'

Another cheer, this one louder still.

Before she resumed speaking though, Hansel could just about make out the change in posture of both figures on the balcony. The princess drew closer to her sister, her arm gripping the queen's. And Elsa's back also stiffened, as if preparing for an anticipated—or dreaded—portion of her speech.

'We hope that this marks the beginning of an era of friendship, peace and prosperity for Arendelle and all her neighbours. To all of you who are here representing your esteemed kingdoms, Arendelle looks forward to a new age of cooperation, trust, and freedom.'

Hansel saw the rise and fall of the queen's chest as she breathed deeply.

'But freedom is meaningless if it is not offered to everyone.'

Hansel kept listening, as did the rest of the crowd without a sound.

'Six months ago, I lost control and plunged Arendelle into winter for several days. Those were fearful days. Not one, but two attempts were made on my life, by those who both feared and hated me. I came up, face first, against the suspicion and prejudice of those who would harm those like me.'

If a pin had dropped in the courtyard, Hansel would have heard it from way up on the roof. Some guests were nodding. A few of Arendelle's citizens dabbed gently at their eyes. A number of the visiting dignitaries remained still as stone, their postures rigid, their expressions unreadable.

_I bet some of you wished that they had finished the job._ Hansel knew the sentiment that had given rise to the assassination attempts on Queen Elsa were far from uncommon—more so in the great lands of Gallia and Suebia, from which the town of Weselton hailed.

Queen Elsa was speaking again.

'Magic is a part of me, and I cannot deny it any more than I can deny my place as ruler of Arendelle.' She paused, and her sister drew closer still. 'I do not know if there are others like me; if they are out there, if they understand as I have understood. But I do know that many like me would have suffered and endured pain as I have. And I believe, as queen of Arendelle, and as one of them, that no one should suffer for being who they are.'

The princess gazed up at her sister's face, her expression filled with quiet warmth and silent support.

'And therefore,' the queen continued, this time with a resolute edge to her voice that only accentuated her regal presence, 'I have decided not only to welcome all of you—distinguished guests and visitors—to Arendelle, but also those who seek a place to belong, those who have suffered for being like me. Henceforth, all those who have been touched by magic—whether born with it, or having been given it—and who are suffering in silence or in the open—to all of you who are hurting because of who you are, to all who long for a place to belong.'

She took a breath, composing herself. 'Arendelle will be your home and your haven. Here you will be protected; here you will be accepted. Here at last, you will be free; here, you may let go what you have held in and concealed all this while.'

She smiled, her posture relaxing. 'And here at last, you will have someone who understands.'

The princess moved completely into a full hug, gripping her sister tightly, ignoring all decorum or protocol. And, with warmth that was palpable even up to Hansel's perch, the queen hugged back.

A few people in the crowd began clapping. One or two raised a cheer. But for the majority, uncertain murmurs began to pepper the throng of guests. Hansel could spot some of them begin to cluster around their respective diplomats, convening hurried and whispered councils.

_The die has been cast,_ he thought. An unexpected turn of events. Things in Arendelle just got a whole lot more interesting.

Very conspicuously, he saw Morcant mac Nuallan, alias Henrik Veicht, dressed unfittingly in Auvernian attire, gesture fleetingly to the men at his side. Conspicuously because he happened to be caught in the ray of sunlight arcing from above the walls, and also because years of training had hammered into the Hansel the habit of constantly ascertaining the position of his mentor and captain, no matter how packed the crowd or harried the atmosphere.

_I sense a change in our orders. _Hansel's lips drew together tightly.

Veicht had resumed the passive and unhurried demeanour of a foreign official flawlessly within an instant. Whatever the signal, Hansel had evidently not been meant to see it.

_And I'm not sure that the new orders involve me, _the mercenary thought.

The balcony doors had closed. The queen and princess had withdrawn. And the crowd remained, static and uncertain, the murmurs growing in volume.

The queen had just turned a delicate situation into a volatile one. And their assignment might have just changed drastically. Experience had taught Hansel that as orders changed, personnel are rendered redundant. Expedient assets will be expedited. The group will be kept as small as possible. And with the stakes as high as they are now, Veicht's enforcers will be responsible for the pruning.

_Which leads us to rule two, _Hansel thought as he slid easily off the roof, away from the courtyard, and towards the rope he had prepared ahead of time.

_Act first._

* * *

Anna gripped Kristoff's arm excitedly as they walked in Elsa's wake towards the town square, hiking up the hem of her dress to move faster. Behind them, Sven tagged along, munching contentedly on a carrot. On either side, the throng of guests parted respectfully. Above them, a light shower of snowflakes fluttered upon the crowd.

Elsa poised right at the centre of the square, her hands outstretched. The crowd held its collective breath. The citizens of Arendelle knew what their queen was capable of, and waited excitedly with bated breath. Those from other lands had heard tales, and were eager to see for themselves.

Then, like the burst of starlight, the traces of magic emerged from her fingers, and a gasp escaped from the crowd.

And she was transformed.

Like a miniature, swirling blizzard, a flurry of frost spun up from the hem of her royal gown, spiraling upwards over her body. Teal was replaced by brilliant blue; purple by a shining translucent cape of ice. She was clad once more in the shimmering dress that so many of her people had come to associate with the Snow Queen—the symbol of power and beauty.

Elsa lifted her hands high above her heads. A second, louder gasp of wonder came from the crowd as ice columns rose from the ground across the square. Spinning like liquid, shedding crystals of frost, taking shape—they assumed the form of statues and people, each one a unique creation of Elsa's. Children chasing each other around the square. A horse, majestic and strong, in mid-gallop.

And right in front of Anna sprouted Elsa's dearest creation. One they both treasured. A pair of young girls, one cradling a snowflake in her hands, while the other gazed in wonder.

The crowd cheered and applauded. Some guests were wiping tears from their eyes. A few foreign diplomats had even removed their hats, as if in reverence of such a display of beauty.

'Hey Kristoff. Snap out of it.' Anna pinched the ice harvester's nose, yanking him out of a daze.

'Huh? Uh. Yeah.' Kristoff massaged his nose sheepishly, his cheeks bright red.

'It's beautiful, isn't it?' Anna sighed, gazing at the icy garden of sculptures, as children ran excitedly between the frozen figures of animals and people. 'It's not like you've never seen it before, though. Elsa's made plenty of ice sculptures for practice.'

She grinned at Kristoff, blushing a little at how adorable he was—it was just _far too easy _to get him at a loss for words.

'I—I just never, I never thought,' Kristoff began, still at a loss for words. He gulped, then looked at Anna. 'Ice is my life, my livelihood. But I never before thought ice could be—you know—this _beautiful_.'

Anna squealed, clapping her hands together. 'I know, I know! It gets me every time.' She looked at her sister as she walked gracefully across the square, waving and smiling at the awestruck guests.

'By the way,' Anna asked, 'where's Olaf?'

Another gasp escaped the crowd. Hopping across the streets towards the town square was a snowman—an actual, real snowman, with twigs for arms and a carrot for a nose—gasping and sighing excitedly.

'Ah, there he is.' Anna grinned from ear to ear; his enthusiasm was infectious.

'Elsa! It's beautiful! So beautiful!' Olaf hugged the hind legs of the frozen horse sculpture. 'Have you named him? I want to name him!'

Elsa giggled. 'Of course, Olaf! What's his name?'

Olaf gasped with excitement. 'Oh my goodness!' He wrapped his twig arms around the statue once more. 'You know what? I'll call you Snow Mane. 'Cause you're a horse, and you're made of snow—well, ice—and you have a mane!'

The guests were murmuring. The children chirped excitedly, all ogling the snowman with nothing but sheer delight. Some adults simply marveled along with them, though they accepted the snowman's presence—given what the queen could do, was creating a living thing of snow so far beyond her powers? One or two diplomats removed their glasses, rubbed them fiercely, put them on, removed them again, and rubbed them a second time, all the while glancing disbelievingly at the little creature.

A few whispers were there too, hissed and breathed, coupled with dark looks. _Sorcery. Unnatural. Monstrous. _

But for Kristoff, Sven, and the two sisters, the snowman was nothing less than the embodiment of pure love and cheerfulness—a creature of winter with summer in his heart.

'Hi Anna!' He hopped up to the princess next. 'Hi Kristoff! Hi Sven! It's a beautiful day!' As the reindeer sniffed eagerly at Olaf's nose, the snowman batted his snout away. 'Hey!'

Olaf nonchalantly picked up his head on his twig arms, putting it level with Anna's face while wearing what was his best impression of a concerned expression. 'I'm worried about your guests though,' he whispered. 'Some of them seem scared or something. Think they've seen snow before?'

Anna laughed nervously, glancing at Kristoff, who shrugged. 'Maybe Arendelle's just crazier than they're used to.'

She looked at Elsa, who was making a round of the square, adding finishing touches on the icy sculptures, her gestures unhurried and ever elegant.

_And maybe my sister just isn't their average queen, _Anna thought with a glow of quiet pride.

Suddenly, she spotted a familiar face. A familiar pair of faces, in fact.

'Rapunzel! Eugene!'

'Anna!' Rapunzel waved cheerily, clearly thrilled to see her.

The pair hugged briefly. 'Welcome back to Arendelle!' Anna said breathlessly. 'I can't wait to show you what's changed around the place.'

'I can only imagine.' Rapunzel smiled appreciatively. 'But you still haven't showed me the astronomy tower yet. Goodness knows I'd like to spend all night up there.'

'I'll take you there, I promise!' Anna was well aware of the princess' interest in star-gazing. 'And of course, I promise plenty of—'

'Chocolate!' Rapunzel squealed excitedly.

'_Yes!_' Anna accented, her hands curling up into little waving balls as she quivered with joy.

For a single moment, both princesses were gone, replaced instead by two giggling young ladies unabashedly excited at sharing a common passion.

Behind her, Kristoff approached tentatively. No doubt the visiting princess knew Anna well. Anna was probably friends and half-cousins with all the royalty in the land. In all probability, the next weeks would be spent accompanying Anna as she met with nobles and regents from the world over. Meetings where he would stand nervously as the royalty exchanged genteel pleasantries, while he would stick out like a uncouth and unlettered sore thumb.

_Your girlfriend is a princess, lumphead. _He chided himself. _You know very well that this happens all the time. _He smiled nervously, and suddenly felt extremely self-conscious in his rustic jacket and boots among the uniforms and tassels of the nobility.

His thoughts were interrupted as a sturdy hand clapped his shoulder.

'Hello! Well met!' He turned to see Rapunzel's companion, a young man with dark brown hair and a scruffy goatee. 'I'm Eugene, by the way. Representative of Corona, and right now feeling really out of place amongst all the high-class folk.' He grasped the mountaineer's hand firmly and warmly, and Kristoff felt his apprehension diminish.

'Hello—hi, Eugene. I'm Kris—I mean, of course you know that. Yeah. I'm Anna's, urm, I'm the royal Ice Master and Deliverer.' Kristoff stammered.

'Anna's boyfriend! Of course!' Eugene patted him on the back even harder. 'Great to finally put the face to the name.'

_And…no follow-up pithy comment about a mountain man like me being with a princess like her? _Kristoff marveled internally. _Funny. Kind of was bracing for that._

'So, Ice Master!' Eugene continued. 'Tell me more about what you do.'

'Well, I, um,' Kristoff began, 'I basically deliver the ice from the mountains to the town. I use a sled to do it, and Sven here helps me pull it.' He gestured to the reindeer, who straightened haughtily with an expression of utmost pride.

Eugene looked at Sven with interest. 'He reminds me so much of a friend of mine. Which, by the way, is probably out devouring every apple in Arendelle. But I digress. That sounds like really tough work. How do you get the ice? Do you collect it off the mountain?'

Kristoff smiled, relaxing. 'I wish it was that easy. No, we have to do it the hard way—I use a saw to cut the blocks straight out of the frozen lake. Then I haul the ice onto the sled. It's about a mile or so from there to the ice house.'

Eugene's eyes widened with genuine interest. 'You must be the strongest man in Arendelle.'

Kristoff laughed, this time genuinely and unreservedly. He was amazed; he was prepared to meet a snooty, stuffy-shirt prince who would probably be hard to talk to and harder still to like. Instead, Eugene's charm was infectious, and Kristoff was actually flattered that someone had shown real interest in his work.

'So what about you, Eugene?' Kristoff ventured. 'What do you do?'

'Well, as of now, boring stuff. Real, dead boring stuff.' Eugene rolled his eyes.

'But what I used to do, however…'

He leaned in closer, putting an arm around Kristoff's shoulder conspiratorially.

'Now that's a whole different tale altogether.'

* * *

Every team, no matter how competent or professional, has at least one designated team idiot. Contrary to popular belief, this idiot doesn't necessarily have to be clueless and in the dark. In actual fact, the knowledge he _does _have coupled with his lack of competence is what makes him dangerous—and, to the right person, useful.

Hansel found his idiot in a tavern at ten o'clock, putting away mug after mug of Arendelle beer. Hansel took the stool next to his, and ordered a beer. He spent the next two minutes eyeing him. His Auvernian uniform was already coming apart; buttons were missing from his vest, and two of the lapel pins were tacked on upside-down.

It does not take much to goad a man who has had too much to drink into spur-of-the-moment decisions.

'Hey, piss-head. You look like the kind of guy whose grandmother could beat him at arm-wrestling. I'm here if you want to prove me wrong.' Hansel jeered, making sure the whole tavern could hear him. He leaned forward, elbow resting on the tabletop, his left hand extended in challenge.

The man gazed at him drunkenly, spat into his mug, and undid his vest, rolling up his sleeves to expose a heavily tattooed forearm.

'Let's do this,' he slurred, tossing his vest aside. It rested, crumpled, on the floor of the tavern. Underneath, he wore only a plain, dirty-looking shirt. Hansel noted satisfactorily that it had no pockets.

_Nice. _His gamble had paid off.

Hansel's hand was crushed in a vise-like grip. For an inebriated mercenary, the man sure was strong.

They sparred for a minute or two. Hansel had wanted to lose on purpose; he soon found that there was no need. Despite using his left hand to match Hansel's, the man was strong, immensely strong. After two minutes of groaning and straining, Hansel's hand finally hit the table in defeat.

A collective sigh went out from the onlookers, and a few pointed jeers rang out.

Hansel was unfazed. 'Fair's fair. Here you go, little something for your trouble.' He tossed his coin pouch at the half-drunk, who fumbled as he caught it. The man's expression changed from one of disdain to an almost hungry look.

As the mercenary poured out the contents of the pouch, entirely distracted, Hansel strode over and nonchalantly picked up his discarded vest.

_There are three pockets on the inner lining. It's the only place he can store anything. _He draped the vest casually over his hand, which quickly palpated the mass of fabric.

There was always a chance that there was absolutely no payoff and that he had sacrificed a week's pay for absolutely nothing. A job hazard, but one he accepted. Gambling on someone's stupidity and carelessness was a gamble nonetheless.

Then his hand brushed against a soft, flat shape, and he smiled.

_Bingo._

He tossed the vest onto the tabletop. The entire sleight-of-hand had taken no more than five seconds.

'Here you go. Don't forget this.'

The drunk ignored Hansel, now back to downing his next mug of beer.

Hansel walked out of the tavern and circled around twice—ensuring he wasn't followed—before heading down an alley to examine his prize. He opened the half-crumpled, carelessly folded sheet of paper.

Whatever new orders Veicht had issued, it was unlikely that it had been translated into writing thus far. Still, Hansel suspected that there were instructions issued to the 'Auvernian' contingent about their duties on spying around Arendelle. Instructions, perhaps, different from his.

Veicht's standard technique for information control. _Compartmentalisation. _You know enough to get your own job done. No more.

As he scanned the document quickly, his breath caught.

He was right about the instructions being different. He was wrong, dead wrong, about _just how different_.

Hansel cursed inwardly. Then, softly but firmly nonetheless, he cursed out loud.

_We are scoundrels, thieves, liars and low-lives. We are __**not**__ assassins._

_This is wrong_.

What the hell was their real mission?

'You sick bastards,' he whispered, crumpling the paper in his fist.

'_She is nineteen years old!_'

* * *

**For some, the best way to thaw a frozen heart is right through the sternum.**


	5. Chapter 5: Heel Face Turn

**A shoutout to fellow Frozen fanfiction author Lady Tralala for giving me some great advice on characterisation and canonicity! And for the rest of my readers, I hope you stick around. Excrement is about to descend at a rapid pace.**

_**Music running through my head as I write this: Brennisteinn by Sigur Ros**_

* * *

**Chapter 5: Heel Face Turn**

* * *

As the crowd moved into the newly-formed ice garden, Elsa sought out the stocky, familiar figure of her closest advisor. Prime Minister Henningsen was admiring the horse sculpture with the keen eye of one who had spent enough time around the real animal.

'Absolutely amazing, Your Majesty,' he enthused, turning around to meet her. 'You truly are like no other.'

Elsa blushed. Henningsen was not given to flattery; high praise from him was high praise indeed. 'I hope I've got everything right,' she smiled humbly, gesturing to the frozen creature.

'Down to the energy in its eyes. A perfect work indeed.' Henningsen bowed.

The queen and prime minister spent the next minute or so watching the crowd. Families and ordinary folk explored and frolicked around the garden of statues freely, whilst some dignitaries admired the sculptures slowly and carefully as one would do at an art gallery. A number of foreign guests, however, simply clustered within their respective diplomatic parties, seemingly unaffected by the festivities.

'Prime minister, I'd like to talk to you about just now.' Elsa began, pausing to watch Henningsen's reaction—he remained neutral. 'I declared Arendelle open to all those with magic—who are like me. And I know that I did so without first consulting you, and I am really s—'

Henningsen forestalled her apology with a gentle raised hand. 'Your Majesty, if my sensitivities trouble you in any way, I assure you there is no need to worry. I have served the royal family long enough to subordinate my own weak-willed pride to the needs of the throne. I merely provide advice—your judgment is the most important, and I believe that you did not make such a decision whimsically and without conviction.'

'Having said that,' Henningsen continued, 'I hope that you understand what's going to happen after this. How those—people—' he gestured subtly at the dignitaries in the crowd '—will react. It's not good news to most of them.'

It was one of the prime minister's personal quirks, Elsa reflected, that he defied the norm of most nobles which masked nervousness and bad news under formal, verbose language. On the contrary, Henningsen reserved his eloquence for good news and bantering small talk—when the gloves were off and he had to speak plainly to his superiors, he could rival Kristoff for frank honesty and lack of verbal acrobatics.

'Many of them outright _hate _sorcery or magic in all its forms.' Henningsen elaborated, looking straight at Elsa. 'These nations here, most of them have fought wars—some with magic on their side, some against it. Each war, sorcery accounted for the bulk of the casualties. Even our ally Corona,' and here he gestured at the princess Rapunzel and her husband Eugene, chatting excitedly with Anna and Kristoff, 'has its own tragic history with magic. Don't forget, the princess herself was imprisoned for eighteen years by a witch.'

Elsa began to see Henningsen's point, and her hands unconsciously began to grip tightly at her dress. 'So you're saying that it was a bad idea then.'

'No, my queen. I'm saying that you've made things quite delicate with our guests.' Henningsen replied. 'I know some of these kingdoms and fiefdoms here, some are still making life difficult for those with magic. And you've just given, outright handed out, _asylum _to a group of people that many of them wish didn't exist. These are the same kingdoms that you'll later have to sit down and chat with and work out trade deals with. After all, Weselton—forgive me, _Weaseltown_—is no longer a business partner. We will need to sustain our economy by making new friends.'

Elsa sighed, going back to wringing her hands. _Did I just cost us our prosperity? _She bit her lip, looking now at Anna, who was giggling intensely while Olaf and Sven fought over his carrot nose as Kristoff tried unsuccessfully to intervene. _Have I brought even more harm to this kingdom?_

'So you think that I made the wrong decision.' Elsa slouched.

Henningsen gently shook his head. 'No. On the night of your coronation, I was afraid when I saw what you could do. But I could also understand your fear. I looked around the room and I saw a crowd of people who suddenly saw you as some sort of otherworldly animal, less than human. I saw a small man with a smaller mind justify the outright murder of a young woman whose graces he sought but a day ago.'

He looked up at the queen, a couple of inches taller than he was, and shook his head. 'Nobody deserves that. And I think with what you are doing, you might be able to help lots of people. Hurting, lonely, fearful people.'

Elsa was suddenly aware that her mouth was open, and in that instance felt a rush of warmth in her chest. She had anticipated a pragmatic reason that was somehow political, or an opportunity for diplomatic posturing. Never did she think that his reasons were just as plain and heartfelt as hers—to make sure that no one like her should be shut out again.

'Having said that,' the prime minister continued, his tone hardening, 'facts are facts. You will have to appeal to each kingdom here in turn. You'll soon find that their stance on magic is only a small facet of their complicated relationships with each other and with Arendelle.'

Henningsen scratched his nose thoughtfully. 'You may even be able to spin your decision to allow 'sorcery' in Arendelle to your benefit.'

'How so?' Elsa was taken aback.

'By showing that your gates are open to all who come to Arendelle in peace, and that your acceptance of those with magic is an extension of that hospitality. In addition, the people you might welcome may likely include the best and brightest of the nations all around, rejected by their land of origin simply on basis of their powers. With this upsurge of human resources, you could turn Arendelle into a powerhouse. Foster a sense of confidence in your potential trade partners that Arendelle is a friend and kind host to those who would reciprocate her trust and come in peace.'

Elsa nodded, genuinely interested. The thought was soured, however, by thoughts of two factions in particular which had most certainly _not _come in peace.

_Weselton. The Southern Isles._

For the sake of her kingdom, she needed to know friends from enemies.

The queen began scanning the crowd, now taking a closer look at all the nations, kingdoms, and townships represented there. She had read up on the guests she had invited, and with her expansive memory, had gained a cursory understanding of the history, culture, and politics of almost all of the kingdoms and towns represented at her festival.

She gestured at a large man clad in a purple uniform, engaging in conversation with his retinue. 'That man's from Auvernia, isn't he? Lord Firmin, I think?'

Henningsen's expression seemed to darken. 'Yes he is. As you recall, this marks their first visit to Arendelle since the civil war.'

'I've read about that.' Elsa bit her lip unconsciously, searching her memory for the section of her history textbook. 'The royalists against the parliamentarians, wasn't it? Went on for a hundred years, practically bankrupted the kingdom. And then, they sought help from the—Teen? Tyne?'

'Teine Empire, Your Majesty,' Henningsen offered, his tone severe. 'A spreading, encroaching disease that has invaded into the world for almost seven hundred years. Small cities and kingdoms like Auvernia are prime prey. So long as the Empire can find an excuse to intervene—in this case, civil war—the little kingdom becomes ensnared in their influence.'

'And to make things worse, there is very little we know about the Teine Empire,' Henningsen continued. 'Most of what we know had come from our old wars. Wars which sadly did not go in our favour.'

'I know about them—a little, at least,' the queen continued. 'They once came close to invading Arendelle, didn't they? But my great-great-great-grandfather managed to push them back.'

'Yes, Your Majesty. King Harold held off the Teine invaders at the Helheim Fjord; our forces had dressed for a long winter, theirs did not. And though they have sued for peace since then, they have not let up the momentum. Their expansion now takes more devious and dangerous forms.'

Henningsen concluded, 'Auvernia is shackled to the Teine Empire. More than three-fifths of trade goes to Teine territory. Teine officers and advisors sit in the royal court. Given enough time, even Auvernia's language and customs will be molded and amalgamated with that of her masters.'

Elsa thought deeply. A flicker of worry stirred in her chest. 'So if Auvernia is here, that means—'

Henningsen nodded gravely. 'Yes, you suspect correctly. A representative of the Teine Empire is here in Arendelle. An 'expression of interest,' they say. Outright spying, say I.'

'They're worried. About Arendelle. About me.' Elsa's eyes narrowed.

'Fear not,' Henningsen assured the queen. 'I have their inn under constant surveillance. And their man—Morcant, or whatever barbaric name they choose to call him—is right in my sights. If he so much as sneezes, my men will know.'

'Thank you, prime minister.' Elsa was far from assured.

Elsa understood the challenge ahead of her. She looked to her left. Anna had just pelted Kristoff full in the face with a snowball, as Rapunzel and Eugene recovered from what looked like a ten-minute long laughing fit. Olaf, split into three clumps of snow, struggled to reassemble himself, as Sven tried to help by prodding the snowballs with his nose.

_I must protect those I care about. _She thought determinedly. She will safeguard Arendelle and shield her kingdom from danger within and without. Even more, she resolved to ensure that Arendelle would thrive in a new era of prosperity.

* * *

Veicht snorted as he peeked out of the inn window. The group of stern, fresh-faced men had been milling about the front of the inn for hours now. One man was even reading a book, his eyes fixed on the windows of the inn, unaware that the book in question was upside down.

_Amateurs against professionals. Not even close to a fair fight._

Veicht was not part of the task. His job was to remain at the inn, clearly visible by the stupidly conspicuous Arendelle agents—or what passed for _agents_—as an alibi to exclude his involvement.

His men, however, were getting ready.

'All weapons secure.' A heavy-set mercenary declared. 'We've checked the firing flints over and over. They'll work even if the sky freezes over and snow clogs up our coats.'

'Good.' Veicht nodded. 'Remember your instructions and your positions. Get in quickly while she's in plain sight. Fire all. Then scatter. The second team will cover your retreat. Head for the mountains. We'll rendezvous in three days.'

The men nodded, packing up their gear. In Auvernian uniform no longer, they were dressed plainly in Nordic clothing. Flawless images of the joyful, spirited revelers come to the beautiful city of the north.

The perfect, most vicious thrust into the frozen heart of the Snow Queen. The enemy emerging from within the ranks of her own merry, joyous, grateful citizens and visitors.

The mercenaries moved out. Veicht did not need to tell them to keep out of sight. On mission, only two kinds of people would ever notice them at work. One kind was called the target. The other was called collateral damage.

And as for linking the operation back to the Teine Empire or Veicht himself—well, that was what his enforcers were for. One way or another, no man would be captured.

_One final, delicious irony._ Veicht licked his lips. _There is no second team to get them out._

Assets. Precious, but disposable all the same.

The thought was still half-formed when he heard the click of a flintlock hammer.

* * *

'So where should we go now?' Rapunzel asked as they walked down the streets, weaving between the masses of people and visitors. They had spent much of the morning exploring the city and the new attractions that had bloomed in the wake of the queen's festival.

'We could visit the chocolatier!' Anna suggested brightly. 'They're making a special line of new chocolates in Elsa's honour.'

The princess gasped in delight. 'Chocolate it is. Lead the way!'

To their disappointment, the entire street in front of the chocolatier was clogged with visitors and citizens alike, all yearning for a taste of the new treat—Arendelle's chocolate had long held a reputation approaching legend.

'This will likely take more than an hour.' Anna pouted, crossing her arms.

'Couldn't they—well, you're the princess, so—' Rapunzel offered.

Anna's expression relaxed, and she smiled. 'No, not doing that.' She looked upon the throng of shoppers and revelers; one or two recognised her and gave her an excited wave, which she returned. 'Everyone here is just as excited as we are—not just for the chocolate, but for Arendelle. Everyone deserves their turn.'

'Hey Rapunzel, why don't you head back to the town square? You could meet my sister; she should be done with the prime minister now.' Anna suggested. 'I'll wait here in line and pick up something for the both of us.'

Rapunzel nodded. 'Thanks Anna, you're the best!' The princess politely nodded, and squeezed her way past the crowd. Anna was left in the midst of the people—truth be told, there was very little semblance of a line.

The minutes ticked by, and only now did Anna notice, in spite of the perpetually cold climate, how much heat could radiate from a crowd of people. She was already beginning to sweat. _I'm not really sure this was a good idea. _

With a small inner 'face palm' of frustration, she realised that the royal court would likely have already ordered a massive stock of chocolates for the night's dinner. _We could have had as many as we wanted tonight anyway. _But she had already promised Rapunzel…so she was stuck here. Stuck waiting.

There was a tap on her shoulder.

'Excuse me miss?'

Anna spun around to see a group of young men, clad in the traditional attire of Arendelle.

'Oh dear,' the man who had tapped her shoulder exclaimed, visibly mortified. 'My sincere apologies, princess. We didn't know it was you.' He bowed hastily, as did his friends, some of whom appeared flustered.

Anna smiled graciously. 'Hey, hey, it's alright. Need help?'

The man smiled. 'Erm, your highness, we were wondering where— ' he stuttered 'where we could find the town square. We're new here, and I'm afraid we became lost in the crowd. We were hoping to see the queen.'

Anna gestured down the street. 'It's this way, head down, and turn right. Then it's a left.' She paused. 'Sorry, I think it's a right.' She mentally kicked herself; her sense of direction was not her strongest suit. _You've been living in this city all. Your. Life._

_Yeah, but I spent most of it locked up in the castle. _Another part of her mind rose to her defence.

She grinned sheepishly. 'I'm afraid it's kind of—hard—to explain—I'd take you there myself, but unfortunately I promised to buy some chocolates. Aaaaaand it's a long wait.' She sighed, gesturing helplessly at the stifling crowd.

'Oh,' the man lifted a neat green-and-purple package tied with a ribbon. 'You mean these chocolates? We bought a huge bunch of them, but I think we've got more chocolate than we have people to give it to. If you would help us to the town square, it would be our pleasure to repay you with these.'

Anna beamed. 'Oh. Oh! Well then, that's wonderful!' _It's your lucky day, Anna, _she thought gratefully. 'Come on. We'll get there in no time!'

She took the man by the hand and pushed firmly through the crowd, as his friends followed. She still had only a vague sense of which way the town square was, but was confident that it would come back to her. _How hard can it be? Just follow the crowd._

Unbeknownst to the princess, the man behind her subtly felt for the fuse under the package of chocolates, linked to the white powder charge.

_Opening gambit. _The explosive would clear out the area, and draw the attention of the civilian populace. Set the scene for maximum effect.

_Follow-up. _Beneath each of their coats, a pair of pistols lay tucked away. Whatever guards that were not stunned or killed by the blast would be finished off quickly.

His eyes went finally to the princess in front of him, who was chatting excitedly to his accomplice.

_Checkmate._

* * *

Veicht slowly turned, raising his hands deliberately.

Hansel stood at the doorway, his expression grim, a flintlock coat pistol in his hand pointed straight at his mentor.

'What are you doing.' Veicht spoke flatly. It wasn't a question. Merely an expression of interest.

'You know perfectly well, Veicht.' Hansel replied, his grip on the pistol tightening. 'Different orders and all. You meant to keep me in the dark, thinking this was a reconnaissance mission rather than a bloody _assassination_.'

Veicht smiled, still keeping his composure. 'So what's our problem here? Surely you know that I kept you out so that you could continue working—and getting paid—without getting implicated.'

'I know exactly the kind of work we do, Veicht.' His protégé hissed. 'But we are not assassins.'

Veicht chuckled humourlessly. 'Is that it? You've grown a heart now, after everything we did?'

Hansel was silent.

'Taking an innocent life—that's your concern?' Veicht continued, keeping eye contact with the mercenary. 'All the work we did—the information we stole—you have any idea how many deaths we caused?' Noblemen executed because we dug skeletons out of closets? Families purged because we spilled their secrets?'

He challenged Hansel with a firm and stony gaze. 'So how is this different? Just because it is done up close rather than from a distance—is one murder better than another? Cleaner, perhaps? More honourable?'

The captain lowered his hands in disdain, as if challenging Hansel to shoot him. 'Why this sudden pang of your conscience, when it has remained silent all this while?'

Hansel's eye twitched. 'There are lines you don't cross.'

Veicht chuckled for real this time. 'A certain village in Teutoburg would disagree with you, Hansel. With you _personally_.'

The young lad winced as if cut physically. For a moment, neither man spoke.

'Consider this my resignation, Veicht. Keep my share of the pay. I'm out.' Hansel spoke finally.

Veicht scoffed. 'Accepted. So leave.'

Hansel's fingers twitched, but remained firmly gripped around the pistol.

'Of all the things you could have done, this is the stupidest.' Veicht challenged again. 'What were you hoping to accomplish? The princess falls today. Coming here, shooting me, none of that would change anything.'

'As a matter of fact,' Veicht continued, 'what are you doing with that pistol?'

'I'm aiming it at you.' Hansel replied flatly.

'Which part of me? My gut? My heart? My head?' Hansel smirked, revealing a row of uneven teeth. 'Your aim is wandering. You can't even hold that thing steady.' He pointed at the barrel of Hansel's pistol, which was swaying undecidedly.

'I've watched you train, Hansel. It's about fifteen feet from me to you. But at that distance, you can't even hit the broad side of a barn door.'

Quicker than Hansel could blink, Veicht's hand flashed forward, gripping an ornate pistol of his own.

'I, on the other hand, could nail your testicles to the wall from fifty feet. So if you're planning on doing anything, you better do it now and hope you don't miss.' The captain's expression was murderous now. 'Anything less than a lethal shot to my heart or head? You'll be dead before you hit the ground.'

There was a flicker of—fear? Rage?—in Hansel's eyes, but the pistol remained in his hand, trained on Veicht.

Veicht shook his head. 'They say all it takes for evil men to succeed is for good men to do nothing. I might be evil, but you damn sure aren't good by any stretch. And _nothing _is exactly what you're going to do right now.'

Hansel's grip on the pistol seemed to waver, and Veicht pressed home the point. 'You didn't think this through,' he taunted. 'You don't even have a plan. And you are going to put away your pistol and _sit _there knowing that you changed _nothing_.'

A light shower of snow tapped rhythmically against the glass of the wall-height window, as the murmur of celebration continued in the city outside. Inside the room, the tension was thick enough to suffocate. Neither man moved.

Then, slowly, Hansel lowered his pistol.

'You're right, Veicht,' he conceded, and the captain felt a second pang of derision. _He concedes, damn it. I suppose I have truly failed in making him anything beyond a very skilled street thug._

Hansel held his pistol by the stock, his finger off the trigger. 'I can't shoot worth anything. Matter of fact, there's not even a ball in here. Didn't bother.'

Veicht snorted. Whatever ruse the boy was planning, it was looking piss-poor. Still, Veicht's own gain remained trained on the boy's heart.

Hansel tipped the barrel over into his right hand, letting the black powder dribble over the ruined and scarred flesh. 'So let's stop wasting your time.'

This time, Veicht did in fact lower his pistol. In terms of negotiating from any position of strength, Hansel had just castrated himself. There was no further threat. Even if he had a second gun and somehow found the guts to load and fire it, the powder staining his hands and sleeves would immolate him.

'So quit, kid.' Veicht said quietly. The boy's predicament was nothing but pitiful.

Veicht failed to notice the soft crimson glow pulsing slowly around the dilated veins lining Hansel's hand. Failed to see how he was rubbing the small measure of powder between his fingers, almost like an apothecary at work.

Hansel looked up, and the captain's heart stopped as he saw the flicker of heat behind his eyes.

'I didn't say that, _captain_.'

* * *

Time seemed to dilate for Hansel as he acted.

His hand shot out, black powder scattering like pungent sand across the distance between him and the captain, whose eyes widened in surprise.

And simultaneously, Hansel gathered his breath. Filled his lungs with air. At the base of his throat, he felt it. The familiar, dreaded, long-forgotten stinging sensation of ignition.

_Breathe._

And he exhaled.

The air itself seemed to explode as the black powder combusted, sending a tongue of searing heat towards Veicht. He reacted too late. The blast—an explosion of air as well as fire—threw him backwards, slamming him relentlessly against the wall. The captain's own pistol discharged harmlessly into the floor.

Hansel gasped for air. His throat stung with the taste of sulfur. _Thing about fire is that it goes both ways. _Turning away from Veicht, he launched himself towards the window. His arms came up, shielding his eyes, as his body leapt into the glass panel.

Veicht came to his senses and turned around groggily in time to see the agile young lad smash through the glass.

His bellow seethed with rage, bewilderment, and frustration.

'_Hansel!'_

* * *

_Move. Move._

Hansel sprinted down the street, pushing past people left and right.

Jagged pieces of stained glass poked out from his cloak. His sleeves smoked, burned through by the blast. Scratches and cuts lined his exposed skin, stinging in the sweat.

_I'm being followed._ Behind, he heard cries of surprise, and hurried footfalls entirely out of sync with the casual pitter-patter of the ambient crowd noise. _Arendelle's 'surveillance,' no doubt._

He was nearing a busy street, choked from end to end with stalls and shoppers. _No getting past that way._

He spotted a vertical banner hanging from the rafters of the corner shop, the golden crocus flower embossed on a purple and green background.

_Let them deal with the crowd. I'll take the high road._

Taking a running jump, he leapt up onto the doorway of the shop, finding a handhold several feet above in the form of a jutting brick. Swiftly, he swung his body upwards, grasping the edge of the rafters. He could hear his pursuers approach, not bothering to keep their voices low; beneath him, he caught one or two gasps of surprise as scattered shoppers caught sight of his acrobatics. Cursing under his breath, he quickly maneuvered sideways into the shadow of the banner, out of sight. The constant hubbub of the crowd, he hoped, would drown out the surprised voices of any curious onlookers.

At any rate, it was a moot point. His tails barged forward into the pressing mass of people, doggedly pushing through the crowd in pursuit of a quarry they imagined was navigating the same morass.

_Heh._

He waited a minute—as long as he could afford—before climbing down. There was no time to waste.

He paused, closing his eyes. Arendelle's layout came to him as easily as if he was viewing a model from above. Another of Veicht's gifts of training; once Hansel had scouted Arendelle in the morning, from vantage points around the city, his near-eidetic memory had captured every street, house and alley as effectively as a map embedded in his mind.

_Not that it helps now. _Arendelle had eighty-seven streets, and numerous alleys, footpaths and cul-de-sacs, each one almost guaranteed to be choked with the crowd. Princess Anna could be anywhere. More importantly, so could her would-be assassins.

He scanned the street ahead, struggling to keep his nerves steady amidst the pounding of the blood through his skull. Then a stab of dread hit him. _What are the damned odds._

A flash of red hair and olive green, skipping excitedly down the opposite street. And behind, five men walking in her wake, their expressions grim and dark.

A second pang hit him like a kick in the gut. He had wondered why he felt so light, how he cleared so much distance in so little time, how he had made a twenty-foot climb almost effortlessly. Now he realised it was because he was carrying absolutely no weapons. _Forget a dagger or a backup flintlock_; in his haste to accost Veicht, he had neglected to arm himself with even a vegetable peeler.

_Hansel you idiot._

Princess Anna appeared to be having some difficulty finding her way. Her 'new friends' appeared equally indecisive.

_Damn it all._

He strode over.

'Princess Anna!' He called out cheerfully. 'The queen has been looking for you!'

Anna turned to face him, her lips forming an 'o.' 'Erm, hi—'

'Of course, princess.' Hansel grinned widely. 'I'm afraid this must wait, fellas. I assure you the princess will be back in your company in no time.' He addressed the group of men, who were now assembling into a half-circle around him and the princess. _Damn it. _None of them looked familiar. A bad sign—most likely Veicht's new employees.

'Well, we'd like the princess to have this, in any case—' their leader thrust forward a package wrapped in green and purple. Beside him, two of their company had stepped forward to surround the duo.

'Oh yes, chocolate! But, but I haven't—' Anna began, reaching for the package.

'Yes, yes, I'm sure.' Hansel grabbed the package first. 'But I don't think this can wait.'

'Hey!' Visibly cross now, Anna looked him up and down. Only now did Hansel realise how he must appear. Disheveled, unshaven, blemished with little cuts and bruises and a tattered jacket. 'Just who _are _you?' she demanded.

'A friend. Who needs you now. Come _quickly_.' He grabbed her wrist, and instantly a part of his brain screeched. _Big. Mistake_.

The princess swung around and slapped him across the face. 'Let me go! I don't know you!' Princess Anna pushed him away, her slender frame radiating utter distaste. _  
_

'Unhand her now. She doesn't want you here.' The lead man in the group spoke grimly.

Hansel looked around, and something clicked. The distance the men were keeping from the duo. The way they seemed to be—bracing—for something. The hands moving slowly and subtly towards their coat pockets.

He looked back at the package in his hands. And then he recognised it. The unmistakable smell.

_Burning fuse._

Hansel cursed.

'Princess.' He spoke, moving forward and putting an arm firmly around her shoulder.

'Get _away _from me!' She pushed against him. In better circumstances, he would have been acting extremely ungentlemanly, shocking behaviour in the presence of a member of royalty no less. But in current circumstances, etiquette was not his chief concern._  
_

'Princess.' Hansel drew close and pressed his body against hers like a shield. 'Close your eyes.'

With all the strength he could muster, he tossed the package upwards and swiftly drew his cloak over the two of them as Anna screamed, little fists pounding into his sore chest.

The explosion lit up the entire street with searing white light, blinding even in the midday sun. Gasps, screams and shouts rang out, and scattered footfalls echoed sporadically against the painful tenderness of Hansel's ringing eardrums. He pulled the cloak off, blinking furiously against the incoherent dots clouding his vision. Around them both, the group of men lay dazed, unprepared for the shock. The pungent aroma of burnt white powder simmered in the air.

Princess Anna was gasping. Her face was flush red, her freckles marred slightly with the residual explosive debris hanging in the air. But she looked steady on her feet. Rearing around, she faced Hansel as her face registered consternation and sudden, raw fear.

'Princess,' Hansel said quietly. 'Run.'

Without a word, she hiked up her dress and sprinted down the street with nary a backward glance.

* * *

Hansel followed, his long strides outpacing hers. His ears rang. His vision sparked and shuddered. His muscles ached. Desperately, he scanned the streets, and the buildings on both sides. _Anywhere. They could strike from literally anywhere._

From an open doorway to his left, he watched a hooded figure emerged with a flintlock trained directly on the princess.

_That was just the advance team. Veicht's bastards are __**everywhere**_**.**

Throwing himself sideways, he caught the assassin's arm in an elbow lock as his free hand went for the pistol. Fumbling, he jammed his finger—painfully—into the space between the frizzen and the hammer, ensuring the gun wouldn't go off. His knee went next into the man's abdomen. As the man doubled over in reflex, Hansel smoothly hooked his foot over the man's own unsteady leg and tripped him over.

Ahead of him, the princess was slowing down, panting with exertion.

He finished off the would-be assassin with a blow to the head with his elbow. 'Princess! _Go_!' Hansel yelled, wrenching the pistol from the limp grip of the man.

Bending over, the princess promptly ripped off an entire year's-worth of Hansel's pay off the hem of her dress, exposing her legs up to the knees, and broke off into a sprint in earnest. No longer bogged down by the awkward trailing fabric, she moved fast—now it was Hansel who struggled to keep up.

_Too fast._ Ahead, Hansel could spot three figures approaching the princess, their firm and menacing strides standing out from the crowd.

He tucked the loaded pistol into his coat; with his especially bad aim, collateral damage was not an acceptable risk. _Now it's close work._

'Princess! To your right!' He called out.

The princess spun around, spotting the first man who was almost upon her, his hands outstretched. Without hesitation, she slammed her fist straight into his nose with a satisfying _crunch_—he sprawled backwards, losing his balance, cursing furiously.

Even in the heat of the moment, Hansel couldn't help but smile. _Feisty-pants.__  
_

The other two men, standing side-by-side, reached into their coats. Unfortunately for them, Hansel had closed the distance.

He opened his arms wide, as if giving a big bear hug, and slammed his palms viciously against the ear of each man. They buckled, crying in pain as their ears rang. As their fists came up simultaneously in wild, unfocused swings, he sidestepped the blows deftly. Hansel's elbow went into one man's torso just as his fist slammed straight into the other's stomach. The assassin's mouth opened wide and blankly as the air hissed involuntarily from his lungs. He caught the other assassin in an elbow lock, throwing him onto his companion, kicked them each in the stomach for good measure, before spinning around and slamming his boot into the face of the first man, putting an end to his incessant cursing. _Incapacitate._

The princess was watching, transfixed. Hansel knew better than to grab her hand again—he motioned for them to keep running. The pair took off.

'Take the next right!' Hansel called out. _A side alley, cutting across to the main street. _The unlikely pair charged down the alley, feet pounding on the sandy snow collecting in the cracks of the pavement. _  
_

'Just—who—are—you?' The princess panted, her face flushed and trails of makeup running down her cheeks, looking at Hansel bewilderedly.

'Right now?' Hansel replied, gasping for breath himself. 'Your best bet.'

They emerged out in the main street, which had thankfully been cleared in preparation for the parade at three o' clock. Unfortunately, the same factor which would grant them speed also meant that they were completely in the open and vulnerable. _We've got to get out of here, _Hansel thought.

'Up the street, then a left!' Hansel called out. The princess was already way ahead of him. _I'm getting the feeling she's not listening to me anyway._

Surprise had been on their side. None of the assassins had been prepared for an interloper. He was sure that advantage wouldn't last for long. While he had trained fanatically under Veicht and was almost his equal in close combat, he was piss-poor at fighting with ranged weapons—which every single one of the assassins were likely to be carrying.

Then he heard the barks of military commands.

_Arendelle guards. __**Now **__I'm screwed._

They were approaching the town square. Ahead, he spotted two guards clad in dark grey, running towards the princess, wielding drawn sabers. _Perhaps the princess could explain things._

'Guards!' He heard a cry from the foremost guard. 'Seize that man! He is after the princess!'

_So much for that._

The first guard charged straight towards him, assuming a fencer's stance as the second guard flanked him from the side. Ahead of him, he spotted the princess sprinting forward—completely unprotected by any guards.

The blade swung down as the guard cried, and Hansel dodged. It nicked his shoulder, and he felt the pain of a new wound. At the edges of his vision, he spotted the second guard bracing for a strike.

Swinging around abruptly, Hansel grabbed the incoming blade with his gloved hand, pulling sharply towards him. Off balance, the guard toppled forward. As he lost his grip on the sabre, Hansel shoved him into the path of the first guard, aiming a kick to his knees—_they hurt_, he thought with satisfaction as the guard lost his balance with a cry of pain. He saw the first guard's eyes widen in surprise as he angled the blade away from his hapless comrade, his arm caught in an awkward position. Still gripping the sabre awkwardly by the blade, Hansel flicked it like a switch against the guard's face. The heavy handle knocked him painfully on the cheek; howling with surprise, he dropped his own weapon.

Hansel tossed up the sabre in his own hand, spinning it in the air, and caught it this time by the handle.

_Sorry fellas._

With an almost surgical swing, the mercenary slashed an arc across the two men's waists, neatly separating their trousers from the rest of their uniforms. Their pale bare legs showed as the fabric bunched up at their knees. With cries of surprise, they fumbled over each other before toppling in a heap, their dark grey hats scattering. _At least loss of modesty's the only damage to you fellas._

Hansel tossed the sabre aside—cumbersome, unwieldy and far too heavy to run with—and took off after Princess Anna.

She had reached the town square. As Hansel's head pounded with the heat of combat, he dimly registered the numerous ice sculptures planted around the open square like the ornaments of a crystal garden. _Beautiful._

Then he spotted a contingent of guards headed right his way. And behind them, approaching the princess, a cluster of figures clad in simple Nordic attire looking anything but innocuous.

_Damn._

Ahead, the guards advanced, with sabers drawn and their expressions grim. Beside him, he spotted a pile of crates stacked up against the wall of a nearby shoplot. Breaking into a sprint, he nimbly leapt onto the pile as the guards closed in, and jumped clear over their heads. He landed with a tumble roll.

As they followed behind with cries of surprise, he focused on the challenge ahead.

Princess Anna had spotted the assassins headed her way, and yelled loudly while pointing at them. In the confusion, the crowd had parted with cries of surprise and shock, with several shrill voices crying for the attention of the guards. The progress of the assassin team had stalled.

Then he watched the pistols come out.

_The princess has never seen one before._

'_Princess Anna!' _Hansel screeched above the din. 'Take cover!'

The princess ducked behind the exquisite statue of a horse in mid-gallop as the first blast rang out, and the horse's snout chipped off with the force of the ball.

The cries turned to screams of panic, and the crowd dissolved; men, women and children fled helter-skelter and stumbled away from the scene, and dignitaries withdrew behind the protective shields of their own guards. Hansel heard the guards behind him grind to a halt, momentarily dazed by the alien sound of the black powder weapon.

_I need a weapon._

And he remembered having one such weapon just a minute ago—a magnificently crafted sabre nicked from a guard—before he tossed it aside.

_Hansel, you do the stupidest things under pressure._

The mercenary's eyes were drawn to a magnificent sled parked just at the edge of the town square, its sleek wooden frame gleaming in the sunlight. At its front, a silver insignia: _Official Ice Master and Deliverer._ At its back: a crate of tools.

He reached both hands into the disorganised pile and pulled quickly and indiscriminately. Without stopping to check his takings, he tore off towards the princess.

The assassins had formed the mercenaries' signature firing formation, with three of them forming a line and firing periodically on the princess' position, while two flanked from each side, weaving in between the sculptures.

Hansel leapt up from behind the carven icy sculpture of a regal-looking warrior, and swung at the nearest man with his left hand.

In mid swing, he realised that his attacking hand was holding a pair of _ice tongs_.

_Damndamndamndamndamndamn_

The awkward metal implements bounced sharply off the face of the assassin, drawing a cry of surprise. Nevertheless, the tongs were heavy, and had knocked him off balance. The second assassin, caught by surprise, swung around with the pistol in hand.

Thankfully, Hansel's second weapon-of-choice was an honest-looking blunt hammer. Swinging from below, he drove the point of the weapon into the assassin's elbow, throwing his aim off. The shot went wide as the man hissed in pain. Grabbing his ears, Hansel yanked him forwards, and hauled him up by the waist, threw him into the first assassin, and then swung the hammer sharply into the kneecap of each assassin in a swift double-tap. Hissing painfully, the men crumpled, tangled in a heap.

One-two, centre-line strikes with the blunt point of the hammer to the solar plexuses of both men. They were out.

The scattered reports of gunshots informed him that the remaining assassins were keeping up the heat on the princess, who was still crouching behind the sculpture, covering her ears as ice chips rained down on her with each shot. He could sympathise; the alien noise of black powder was terrifying to the human ear.

_Stay down, princess, _he implored.

He spotted the second group of flankers heading for the princess, about twenty feet away from him, dodging behind a miniature sculpture of Arendelle castle. He dashed forwards, heading for the horse statue.

Then he was hit by a mountain.

At once Hansel was sprawled on his back, crushed beneath the sheer weight of an avalanche, the hammer in his hand knocked a good five feet away by the sheer force of impact. Limbs flailing, he reached wildly and grasped nothing but solid muscle on top of him. He vaguely registered a large nose and a mop of messy blonde hair before the first blow hit and the wind went out of him.

'Get! Away! From! Anna!' Each word was punctuated by a punch to his face. Each strike exploding across his vision like a shower of stars.

He managed to wiggle a hand free to shield his face. Unfortunately, that meant his weary, already-bruised hand was now taking the brunt of the punishment.

He was sure his fingers were broken by now.

_Do they—_punch—_have—_punch—_mountain trolls—_punch —_in Arendelle?_

Hansel's mind had retreated into the tiny hollow that somehow protected his mental state when his body was under attack. Very, very dimly, he registered that his assailant—_is this man half giant—_had planted his knees on the ground at an awkward angle in his haste to attack Hansel.

Curling his free leg around the man's waist, Hansel pushed sideways and spun his body around, using the man's beefy leg as leverage, pulling his attacker off balance. Then his free leg cut straight to his attacker's knees.

The behemoth flailed momentarily before hitting the ground face-first, his _oof _audible. The relief was absolutely breathtaking as the relentless punishment ceased. Unfortunately, that also meant that every screaming burning nerve in Hansel's strained body was roaring back to life.

Hansel struggled to his feet. He had no time to appreciate his modicum of success. His vision was almost _gone_. Not blurry, not swimming. _Gone. _He wasn't even sure if his sense of balance was intact. Swaying, shaking off the pain, he staggered towards the cover of the horse sculpture.

_I just got hit by an avalanche, _he thought dizzily.

Then suddenly, there was a sound unlike any he had ever heard.

The hissing, chilling, relentless blast of a winter wind driven by a force beyond nature. From behind the statue, he watched as a solid wall of ice materialised between the assassins and the princess.

The princess' face lit up for the first time. '_Elsa!_'

_The queen._

The assassins forming the firing line scattered instantly. From behind them, a wave of ice spikes—_spikes!—_pursued menacingly. Hansel stared, transfixed by this display of power.

Hansel turned his attention back to the two assassins that remained. His blood heating up, momentarily driving off the pain and giving him some measure of focus, he sprinted for the duo.

He closed the distance quickly, swinging his good arm in a wide arc, ignoring the crushing pain in the other. They were ready for him. Dodging the blow, one figure—_a woman,_ Hansel thought with interest—drove the point of a dagger towards his chest. He deflected it with his good hand, sending the blade flying. The second assassin had readied a pistol.

Then a blast of frost caught all three of them off guard.

Hansel's eyes screwed up shut as the biting cold washed over his body. Coming to his senses, he cast off his frozen cloak which now felt as if it weighed as much as he did. Both assassins, equally dazed, spun around momentarily in confusion. Then he looked up and saw the whirling vortex of snow and biting wind forming above their heads.

_She thinks I'm one of the assassins!_ Hansel thought in panic and despair.

_Can this day get any better!_

The first assassin had recovered quickest. She pulled out her own pistol. Hansel grappled with her hand as she aimed a fist for his head. It connected—his vision went blurry, but his grip was firm. He could taste blood against his lips, and felt a warm stream of fluid running from his nostrils. Fighting against disorientation, he held on, dimly registering that the second assassin was readjusting his aim.

He maneuvered the woman into the path of the shot, still struggling desperately against the remarkable strength of his opponent.

_Slippery ground. _A voice whispered at the back of Hansel's mind.

In a flash, Hansel aimed a swift kick to the shins of the first assassin. She lost her footing and slammed down painfully onto the ground, the gun discharging harmlessly into the thin layer of frost on the ground. In the instant, Hansel straightened upwards, his hand going for the flintlock in his coat, leveling it at the second assassin at the exact same time at which the assassin fired his weapon.

Hansel's shot went wide. The man's did not.

The young mercenary was somewhat aware that he was hit. Before him, his opponent's face registered nothing but shock. Dimly, Hansel thought something was familiar, despite the change in hairstyle and the lack of facial hair. Then recognition hit him just as the first searing pang of pain shot up his abdomen.

'You idiot,' Jansen hissed, his expression pained and regretful, loosening his grip on the smoking flintlock. 'I was aiming for _her._'

Then Hansel felt nothing but cold. Cold, cold all around. Vaguely, he watched as Jansen took off away from the town square, covering a remarkable amount of distance in a short time. He looked down.

From the shoulders down, he was encased in ice. Thick, solid ice, menacing and sharp, binding him as effectively as chains. His pistol had fallen uselessly to the icy ground. Hansel watched, mesmerised, as a layer of spiky frost crept over the weapon, cracking the patina of the carven handle, deforming the delicate structure of the iron components.

As he looked back up, he saw the Snow Queen approach.

Hansel's breath caught for the second time that day.

If she was beautiful before, she was absolutely _breathtaking _now. Her dress embraced and accentuated her figure, shimmering blue in the light, and he realised dimly that her entire dress was made of pure ice. Her one leg, slender, pale and sensuous, peeked out from behind the slit in her dress, and the childish, brattish part of him chirped excitedly like a boy in a candy store.

_It's the damned blood loss and shock,_ Hansel chided himself, smiling stupidly as his consciousness began slipping away. _It could turn anyone into an idiot, it's not my fault._

The Snow Queen approached, stepping gracefully but firmly across the snow-covered ground of the town square, each step leaving no imprint. She was glaring at him, even as the princess arose hesitantly from behind the statue and embraced her sister. Her face, pale and beautiful, was cold with stern fury.

'Hello, Queen Elsa,' Hansel greeted, managing a stiff nod. 'It is my great pleasure to meet you at last.'

He wasn't even sure if the words came out so eloquently. No doubt they had formed in his mind, like the debonair pronouncements of some picaresque hero. In truth, Hansel suspected that the collective trauma to his head had robbed him of the ability to utter anything more fluent than _blurblurblurrghh._

Now he was sure that his body had enough. Neither the queen nor her sister registered as nothing more than a vague smear of brilliant blue and verdant green across his field of vision.

'I yield to your custody—and—and offer no resistance. But before that—'

His vision narrowed into a tunnel, and his body went numb—whether from cold or shock, he knew not.

'I believe, my queen, that I am in need of medical attention.'

His world went dark.


	6. Chapter 6: Picking Up the Pieces

**Chapter 6: Picking Up the Pieces**

* * *

Arendelle was in uproar.

Where crowds of tourists and merry citizens mingled and wandered freely but half a day ago, there were now guard patrols marching grimly with pikes held high and sabres at the ready. Diplomats and visitors were relegated to their ships—politely, of course, although in truth no choice was offered—and security contingents patrolled the harbour.

Krokus Inn was put under lockdown by the captain of the guard; plainclothes guards who were running surveillance on the inn during the incident reported a man breaking through the second floor window and moving in the direction of the town square, although his identity was indeterminate as he managed to throw off pursuit. The fact that the Auvernian contingent was housed in the inn raised a point of interest, although the Auvernian delegate Lord Firmin resolutely and very _insistently _maintained the absence of any and all involvement.

Nevertheless, the captain of the guard noted with interest that one recorded member of the Auvernian contingent was missing. A certain Morcant mac Nuallan, purported to be a representative of the Teine Empire. Given his abrupt disappearance and his ties to the less-than-welcome empire in question, he was raised to the top of the watch list.

The ice garden was in ruins. Statues lay overturned or mutilated, parodies of their previous magnificence and artistic worth, all marred by scars of the melee.

At the centre of the square, near a frozen fountain spouting a geyser of petrified crystal, the mangled statues of two little girls lay in pieces ringed by scattered fragments of pigtails and braids, hands broken off, the remains of a snowflake still recognisable in one pair of palms.

* * *

'Anna, Anna!' Elsa suppressed a gasp as she rushed forward, her hand rushing to her mouth.

'Hey Elsa,' Anna replied wearily, rising from the divan, wincing slightly from the sudden change in position. Despite the ordeal, she offered a cheeky smile as her sister rushed forward and smothered her in a tight embrace.

'Hey, hey, still sore here, easy on the hugging,' Anna quipped, squeezing Elsa supportively, her lightheartedness undaunted.

Beside her, the court physician smiled understandingly, hands clutching his personal case.

'The princess is well, Your Majesty. Aside from some cuts, bruises and exhaustion—easily treated with ointment and long bed rest—she seems to have suffered little beyond shock.' The physician offered, his voice mellow. 'She will make a full recovery in about two days.'

'Thank you, doctor,' Elsa nodded appreciatively. Her arms were still firmly wrapped around her sister, with her braided blond hair tumbling over Anna's shoulder. He took the subtle hint, offering a polite and professional bow as he took his leave of the queen.

For a moment, the two girls remained in the moment of intimacy. Anna pulled away first, smoothing down the front of her dress.

'I think my dress came off worse than I did,' Anna chuckled, pointing at the ruined garment. The hem was shredded and torn ribbons of olive fabric hung across her legs. Elsa felt a poignant pang as she saw a purple bruise smeared across the front of her left knee.

'And so much for my shoes. New ones too.' Anna wiggled her bare toes, many of which had chipped nails. 'Then again, they were too tight anyway.'

'Anna,' the queen began. 'I'm so, so sorry for all this.' A single pearly tear bubbled forth from under her eyelid.

'What for? It's not like—' Anna was about to make another joke when she spotted the tears and froze in place, her smile fading.

'It's my fault, I—I wasn't careful enough—I put you in danger!' Elsa sobbed, the tears streaming freely down her cheeks. 'I should have—should have known that some—something like this would happen—I should have taken precautions, put more guards—'

'_Elsa!_' Anna cried firmly, seizing her sister's shoulders in both hands. Elsa stopped, in mid-gasp, her mouth open. She looked at Anna, whose freckles seemed to glow with the earnestness of her determined expression.

'Elsa, you promised never to close the gates again, and you kept that promise.' The red-haired princess began, staring resolutely into Elsa's eyes. 'I was careless, yes, and I got a bit banged up.' She looked down briefly and sheepishly as if to concede a point.

Anna took a deep breath, then continued. 'But I won't let you blame yourself for everything that happens to me. Don't let fear control you, Elsa. Don't shut us in again. Whatever happened and whatever will happen, I'm here for you and we will face this together.'

Elsa held her gaze for what seemed like an eternity, neither sister speaking. Then, slowly, she dabbed at the wet corners of her eyes. Sometimes it was easy to forget that Anna as headstrong and bold as she was playful and optimistic.

'I love you,' both sisters spoke at the same time, in sync. Elsa's eyes lit up, and they embraced again. 'Jinx,' Anna whispered playfully.

'Tell me what happened.' Elsa drew back, looking her sister intently in the eyes. Anna breathed deeply, looked at her hands for a moment, and began speaking.

'It started when I went to get some chocolate for Rapunzel, you know how she likes them—and then I forgot that we were going to have some anyway—and so, you know, I felt kind of silly. So I was waiting out there, outside the shop, when—'

* * *

'—and I just hid there, and then you showed up and _froze _everything and then I knew I was safe.' Anna finished, exhaling with relief. 'Honestly? I think I have Snow Mane to thank; he protected me like a brave horse.'

Elsa had held her hands tightly to her lips for the entire duration of her sister's tale, her wide blue eyes never once looking away from Anna's. It was some time before she was able to speak.

'And were you—you must have been so afraid.' Elsa spoke in a barely audible whisper.

'No kidding,' Anna raised her eyebrows, puckering her lips. 'Mostly just focused on running, though, so that's alright. And well, there was that guy I told you about.'

'Did he hurt you?' Elsa asked sharply, biting her lip as her eyebrows narrowed. Glancing down, Anna noticed the translucent sheen of frost forming on her bare fingers.

'Well, he grabbed my arm at first—didn't hurt, but I _really _don't like that. At all.' Anna replied. 'But no, he didn't do anything else.'

Elsa gripped Anna's hands earnestly. 'Let's go through things again. You told me that he appeared just when you were talking to some new friends outside the chocolatier.'

'Pushy guy.' Anna sulked. 'They were about to give me some chocolates and then he snatched them away, just like that! He even pulled me close—creep, like I said!—and pulled his cloak over my head. And then—well, I'm not sure—'

Anna paused, noticing Elsa's enraptured expression. 'There was this really loud bang and a big flash of light. My eyes and ears hurt. And the first thing that he said to me was to _run_.'

'And you did?'

'Well, yeah, but not because I listened to him or trusted him—_creep_, remember? I just wanted to get away. From him, from the whole thing. I thought only about getting back to the town square, to you.'

'He's one of _them_.' Elsa turned to the side, her anger barely suppressed. The frost spread like a wave across her hands, coating them like gloves. 'He was trying to _kill _you. He led you to the town square, and his friends were waiting there.'

'No, no, I—I don't think he was trying to trap me, at least didn't feel like it. He ran with me, like I said, sometimes calling out directions and things like that, or telling me to watch out,' Anna recounted. 'True, I was running away from him as well—did I tell you how he grabbed my arm? Or just bossed me around while calling me _princess_? I didn't know him, I _knew_ he was a creep, and when things started happening I didn't think about trusting him. But, I don't know—' Anna softened her tone, and glanced down at her knees again. 'I can't remember a lot about what happened, probably because it happened so fast. But I think—'

Anna paused for a bit, trying to make sense of the events of the day. 'I think he wasn't trying to kill me, Elsa. I think he was trying to _protect _me somehow.'

Elsa pursed her lips firmly, looking intently at Anna. Her sister just had a fright, and Elsa knew from experience that frightening moments tended to make Anna especially jumpy or energetic once they had ended. She hadn't forgotten how Anna punched Prince Hans—easily a head taller than she was—straight into the water after the great thaw. She had also not missed that barely a day after experiencing the elation of freedom from the castle, she had gotten engaged to a man she had known for only a few hours; a man who later almost caused the death of both sisters.

_Is this another one of her fantasies? The shock and exhaustion talking? _Elsa thought.

Anna tried, and failed, to suppress a yawn. Elsa immediately seized upon the involuntary motion, resting one hand on her sister's shoulder while pointing to the divan. 'Rest. Anna. Now.'

Her sister nodded sleepily, and lay down comfortably. Her head had barely hit the soft surface before she was fast asleep, one fraying braided pigtail draped unfashionably across her nose.

Elsa got up slowly, collecting her thoughts.

Captain Frederik had assured her that the rest of the assassins would be taken back to the fort under the royal guard.

_Who sent them? Who's behind this?_

Unbidden and pungent, images struck her mind. Two men, clad in red, cornering her in her ice palace, crossbows raised menacingly. A tiny, squirrelly figure with a prominent moustache sprawled across the courtyard steps, pointing accusatorily at her while shrieking _monster, monster!_ A tall, red-haired prince, his face contorted into a leer of savage determination, a sword raised above his head.

_There are those who would hurt us. Those that want us dead._

Elsa shook off the memories. There was much to do in the aftermath of the afternoon's crisis. She was the Queen of Arendelle. She had to stay focused.

She moved to the door, opening it gently so as not to wake her sibling.

* * *

Elsa smelt Kristoff even before she saw him—he was pacing nervously outside the door, his hair unkempt, his clothes still half-caked with snow, trailing a trickle of melting frost across the floor that was likely to make her maidservant Gerda scream with frustration.

'Hey,' she said gently, taking dainty steps towards him.

Kristoff looked up, startled, springing to attention, his eyes falling on the hem of her icy dress before roving upwards to meet her face. 'Erm, hi, Elsa, I mean Queen—'

'_Elsa's_ just fine, Kristoff, I've told you before.' Elsa forestalled his attempts at formality. She gestured at the door behind her. 'Anna is resting. The doctor says she'll be fine, she wasn't seriously injured, and just needs rest.'

Kristoff's shoulders slumped; his relief was apparent. 'Thank goodness.' He breathed deeply. 'I—I hope you don't mind me waiting around here—I want to see Anna. Make sure she's safe. I mean, of course she's safe in here, but I just want to see—'

'Not a problem, Kristoff, you're welcome to stay.' Elsa smiled—even though Anna practically insisted on making the palace Kristoff's second home, he was about as comfortable around it as a fish out of water. 'But maybe you'd want to get yourself cleaned up.' She pointed at the growing puddle of muddy water pooling around his dirt-caked feet.

'Oh! Right.' The mountain man turned beet-red. 'Sorry, really sorry, I'll get washed up.'

'Bathroom's that way.' Elsa pointed over her shoulder. Awkwardly, Kristoff began to trudge away, trying—and failing—to use his coat to soak up the melting snow before it hit the ground.

'Elsa,' he spoke suddenly, stopping in mid-stride, and his voice was instantly devoid of any bashfulness. The queen perked up.

'The man who tried to get Anna. You've got him locked up here, don't you?' He asked.

The queen nodded wordlessly.

'I'll have a few things to say to him. He was trying to get to Anna.' Kristoff's face hardened, and his knuckles turned white as he clenched his beefy fists.

'I'll make sure he doesn't _ever _hurt Anna again. And I haven't forgotten this.' Kristoff pointed at his nose—already large before, it was now swollen and flushed purple like a glaring spot—and Elsa suddenly had to fight the inappropriate and totally bizarre urge to laugh.

'Nobody tries to hurt Anna. _Nobody_.' Kristoff finished, taking his gloves off and stuffing them into his coat. Elsa didn't fail to notice the raw and bloodied knuckles, and fingernails filthy with detritus.

'Right now, just worry about keeping Anna comfortable. Leave the prisoner to me.' Elsa nodded encouragingly, and Kristoff seemed appeased.

The mountaineer continued tromping off to the bathroom, only to pause at the end of the hallway, obviously puzzled.

'Second door on your right,' Elsa called out. Kristoff's embarrassment was almost palpable as he called back something incomprehensible, opening the door quickly and disappearing into the bathroom.

Elsa retreated to the library to gather her thoughts. Distractedly, she ran her fingers over the spines of the books lining the shelves, a collection assembled since the time of her grandfather. _Principia Mathematica. Folk Tales of the North. A Concise History of the Realm of Gallia, Suebia, Teine, and Smaller Lands. _New books mingled with old, yellowed and frayed covers rubbing against fresh additions imported from lands beyond.

The library was always her favourite haunt. Here, she spent countless hours exploring lands and kingdoms she thought she would never visit; here she found companionship with lives immortalised on the written page, companionship that she once denied herself and denied her sister. She explored the elegance of mathematics and the grace of geometry within this room, whiling away countless hours by the large paneled window through which she could see Anna on the palace grounds, riding a pony jumpily around the palace garden as Kai tried desperately to bring both enthusiastic rider and erratic mount under control.

At the table by the window, she sat and began to think, as her thoughts settled into a quiet rhythm.

_I will need to control the damage, meet with the council. Get things back into order. _She knew how much rode on her festival—in truth, it was a massive diplomatic conference dressed in the air of festivity and cheerfulness. To keep the city under martial law for the duration of the festivities would utterly and completely destroy any diplomatic opportunities she had hoped to glean. Arendelle's very future depended on the kingdom's relationships with her neighbours.

_It didn't matter that they failed, _Elsa thought bitterly about the assassins. _One way or another, they've already won. _They had petrified Arendelle with fear. Her greatest enemy had come to her doorstep and carved its mark.

Then there was the man in her dungeon.

He had survived. Survived what Doctor Olsen called the worst and most peculiar wound he had ever seen, survived the inevitably fatal blood poisoning that had condemned so many nameless soldiers to death in the wars past. He had been chained up and imprisoned once the mercy of medical aid had been accorded him. Kept in the dungeon _at the queen's pleasure. _And through the ordeal, he had said not a word.

_My prisoner. _A phrase alien and unwelcome. She was once a captive, both with and against her will. Now, she found herself a captor.

_What would the queen of Arendelle do?_

There was only one way to find out.

After the meeting with the Council, she would speak to her prisoner.

* * *

**As always, reviews, comments, PMs are all much appreciated. And to those of you who have favourited and/or are following this story, thank you, thank you, thank you! Your support means a lot to me.**

Special thanks to fellow writer Lady Tralala who introduced me to both A Sister More Like Me and The Art of Frozen. Fingers crossed, expect to see characterisation and artistic description improve in the coming chapters.


	7. Chapter 7: Frozen to the Bones, I Am

**If you're new here, welcome! If you've been following this story so far, welcome back and thanks for your support! **

**And to everyone reading, it's Sunday afternoon here in Malaysia. Have a blessed Easter everyone, He is risen!**

* * *

**Chapter 7: Frozen to the Bones, I am**

**Soundtrack: _Iron _by Woodkid.**

* * *

The meeting had been draining. All the members of her cabinet were spooked, enraged, bewildered, frustrated, and often all at once. The Council was fragmented, cacophonous, and indecisive, even with Henningsen's undaunted attempts to impose a semblance of calm and order. It was all Elsa could do to stop herself from freezing the long table solid.

Anna was awake. Kristoff had kept a two-hour long vigil outside her door, wasting no time in rushing into the room once Gerda had informed him that the princess was well enough to see him. Once Elsa had ensured that Anna was in fact well and comfortable, she had closed the door on the tender scene and left the duo to the privacy of the chamber.

It had taken her a long time to warm up to Kristoff. (She chuckled at the unintended pun, gazing down at the ice lining her bodice; _the Snow Queen, warming up?_ ) He was rustic, simple, brusque and honest, growing up a world apart from the court in which the two sisters had been raised. And yet in him, Anna had found a solid anchor. She sensed that her sister both loved and trusted Kristoff, and that Kristoff did the same for her.

Elsa looked back towards the chamber. She could hear voices from beyond the door, and while the words were indecipherable, the joy and relief in them were unmistakable.

Kristoff's words and actions that afternoon had proved beyond a doubt that he would defend and protect Anna with his very life should it be required. Hearing his awkward attempts at an open threat towards the stranger in her dungeon, she felt a warm glow towards the man her sister loved. His rugged philosophy was simply and binary—if Anna was safe and happy, he was happy, and he would do anything to keep her from being otherwise.

And now one matter remained.

* * *

Elsa descended the stone staircase, leaving the bright sunlight and coloured panels of the palace hall behind for the ominous darkness beneath its floor.

Every footfall echoed off the stone steps, reverberating around the walls. The darkness closed in with every step down like an oozing beast engulfing its prey. The glow of the torches on the wall brackets cast menacing shadows over the angular arches that formed the walls. Amber torchlight reflected off Elsa's icy gown, swirling sickly orange amidst in the frozen rosemaling patterns.

She was not afraid of the prisoner. Weak, fainting and almost delirious, the chains and manacles were almost unnecessary when the guards hauled him into the cell. And even at full strength—which he was unlikely to reclaim for weeks—he would be no match for the Snow Queen.

She feared something else entirely.

_This place._

The unfeeling, suffocating walls of the prison cell. The darkness, choking and cold, even to one unmoved by cold. The shackles, holding her within the gloom like the claws of a beast. The face of a traitor, earnest and sincere, who promised to help right before setting off to murder her sister.

It all came back, unbidden, unwanted, unbridled.

She paused at the sight of the two guards outside the cell, standing at rapt attention. She could still turn back. Captain Frederik would be more than ready to handle the interrogation, and was far more experienced. There was absolutely nothing to gain from submitting herself to the dangerous—and possibly distressing— experience.

Then one guard spotted her, turned and bowed. 'Your Majesty.'

Elsa gulped. _No turning back now. _She had to see this through.

'I am going in.' Her lips were dry. Her voice quavered.

'Your Majesty—' The guard began, a look of concern crossing his face.

'Be ready outside. I will only take a few minutes.'

The guard hesitated. 'Would you like a light to be brought, Your Majesty? We will escort you in case the prisoner attempts anything.'

'No, it's alright. I—I can see just fine in the dark.' Elsa knew it was just an excuse. In truth, the thought of the stinging prickling heat of a torch flame so close to her hand was too much to handle. _One of the drawbacks of being the Snow Queen._ 'And I can take care of my own safety.'

The guard nodded. 'We have bound him hand and foot, Your Majesty. We will be waiting outside. Just give the word at any time.'

'Thank you.'

The two guards stood aside, bowing stiffly to the queen, grey hats bending forwards comically like fingers pointing towards the menacing, heavy door to the cell.

_I need to know, to see for myself._

At times, Elsa suspected that she was in fact more reckless than her sister.

Elsa gathered her courage, and gripped the door handle.

_Here we go._

Breathing deeply, she opened the door.

At first, there was nothing but grey murky darkness. Then she made out the hard lines of the cobblestones. The Gothic arches that formed the walls of the prison. The musky, stale smell.

_Nothing's changed._

The door closed behind her. The illumination of the torches from the corridor ceased abruptly, and the dark reclaimed her vision for a moment.

The soft pale light from the single window on the opposite wall seemed to dissipate and fail halfway through the cell. Where the light was faintest, there was a dark irregular shape outlined on the floor.

Then the shape stirred.

Elsa's heart went to her throat.

'Queen Elsa.' The voice was husky, dry.

Chains clinked. Something scraped against the floor. Then there was the sound of breath being drawn. Shuddering, rasping, animalistic.

She could still go back. Turn away and slam the door.

Then the voice spoke again. 'So where are they?'

Elsa ventured to answer. 'Who?'

'Them. Your torturers. Interrogators.'

'I don't have any. I'm here to speak to you myself.'

The prisoner chuckled weakly—a laugh that turned into a hacking, dry cough. 'I thought about getting an audience with the queen, but this wasn't how it played out in my head.'

She saw the dark shape stir again. Then what looked like a mess of matted hair rose, and Elsa realised that it was the prisoner's head. Briefly, two dim points of light gleamed forth—his eyes.

Elsa stepped forward—a tiny, tentative step towards the light. To her, it felt like leaping a chasm. Behind her, the shadows seemed to close in and seal off her path to safety.

_Shake it off. You're in control._

'Who are you?' Elsa's voice was firm, cold and steely.

Chains rattled again, and the shape shifted once more. 'Your prisoner.'

'_What did you do to Anna?_' Elsa's fists clenched, fingernails digging into her palms.

'I saved her life.' The prisoner leaned forward, chains rattling as the weight of his body strained against them. 'Don't think many people believe me though, you included.'

'Anna does. She seems to think that you tried to protect her.'

'Oh.' The prisoner hesitated. 'Well, I'm flattered by the vote of confidence.'

'She also thinks you're a creep.' Elsa riposted.

The shape slumped. 'Alright, I'll give her that.'

'Enough.' Elsa's patience was wearing thin. '_Who are you_?'

The silence hung in the air long enough for Elsa to notice the wind whistling through the cracks between the cobblestones.

'I guess you could call me a mercenary.' The prisoner's voice echoed in the gloom. 'Or maybe _spy _is a better word for it. I trade in information for those who are willing to pay for it.'

'What do you know about those who tried to kill my sister?' Elsa cut in. 'Do you work for the Southern Isles? For _Weaseltown_?'

The prisoner lifted his head again. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, Elsa noticed that his hair was dark brown, long and unkempt. The prisoner appeared to be kneeling, arms stretched out to the side, his posture no doubt enforced by his bonds. Elsa's heart skipped a beat as she saw that his hands were bound tightly in cast-iron manacles, with the chains running around his body and to the floor.

_The same ones they put on me._

_Is this what it feels like to be on the other side? To see someone else helpless and unable to move?_

'Let me give you a demonstration of how my line of work operates.' The man showed no trace of being at all distressed. 'I'll trade you valuable information for benefit. For every question I answer, I'd like a favour in return.'

Elsa bit her lip as the anger rose like a tight knot in her chest. 'I will _not _play your games.'

'Relax. I'm not asking for you to release me from prison. Rather, I was hoping you'd unbind these manacles. You can keep the chains on. Just let me have my hands free. For a start. You can't imagine what it's like to have an itch you can't scratch.'

Elsa's mind worked in fury. The prisoner had no way of harming her, even if his hands were free. His request seemed to be motivated purely by a desire for comfort.

As her eyes ran over the prisoner, she realised in the dim light that he was naked from the waist up. She moved closer to examine him, and as the angle of the fading sunlight shifted, the prisoner was briefly illuminated in bright orange.

Her breath caught.

The prisoner was injured. A dark bruise smeared over his shoulder and forearm, and numerous cuts—some of them deep, oozing dried blood—scarred his upper body. His abdomen was bound by the tight bandage hastily applied by Doctor Olsen, no doubt covering the injury that almost claimed his life. Though long hair covered most of his face, Elsa could tell that it had taken injury also—an angry purple blotch covered one cheek.

But what truly caught her attention was the man's body itself. Lean and muscular, with old scars running over battle-hardened sinew. And along the right arm, furthest from the light, she made out nothing but blackness, though the darkness around concealed it from closer examination. In the fading light, she made out some more shapes and marks on his skin—_tattoos?_—lining the threads of muscle.

_A predator._

_This isn't a captive being submissive and cooperative. This is a caged beast waiting patiently for me to get careless._

But she had to know.

'Fine.' Elsa was reluctant. 'I will instruct the guards to unbind your manacles after this. But only your hands. And only if I think your answer is good enough.'

'Very well,' the prisoner answered. 'First, the question.'

'Who were those people who tried to kill my sister?'

'My colleagues—_ex-colleagues_—working under a man called Henrik Veicht, alias Morcant mac Nuallan. After you became queen, and after the world found out about your powers, some people got _really _interested in Arendelle. We came here to acquire information for our employers, or so I thought.'

The prisoner paused for breath—which he took in sharp, quavering breaths. 'Sorry if I stop from time to time. Just a thought, my queen, but the proper first aid for a shot wound involves keeping the victim warm, not freezing him solid.'

The last few words ended in a breathless grunt before he filled his lungs with air again.

In spite of herself, Elsa winced. 'I'm sorry.' While she distrusted the prisoner and his intentions, she appreciated the damage caused by his peculiar injury. _It must have been extremely painful._

'No matter. I didn't think anyone in your kingdom had seen either this sort of injury or the weapon that caused it. Your doctor did the best he could in the circumstances. Which brings me back to our assignment.'

'We were led to believe,' the prisoner continued, 'that we were simply here to run a spying operation. In truth, Veicht was plotting an assassination. Your sister was the target.'

'_Why?_' Elsa whispered. 'Why her, and not me?'

'A simple calculation of risk.' The prisoner replied matter-of-factly. 'Weselton and the former prince Hans already tried, and failed, and their reputations suffered while yours only rose. You were likely to be on your guard after this, and your powers also posed a massive challenge. A third, botched attempt would risk significant resources for a dubious outcome.'

He was interrupted by another hacking cough. 'Attacking you _might _have succeeded, but if the mission failed, the whole thing could go up in flames, starting with our team and ending with those who hired us. The risks outweighed the benefits. Anna was the next best option—Veicht must have figured she'd be easy to isolate. He was right.'

'But what will—killing Anna—what could they gain from this?' Elsa asked, her mind a blur. It didn't make sense. _She _was queen of Arendelle. _She _made the decision to open the gates, to sever relations with Weselton, to deport Prince Hans. Why would assassins ever target _Anna_?

'If you're attacking a guy with a knife, you don't punch him in the knife.' The prisoner's tone was epexegetical. 'Same thing, you don't try to bring down a kingdom by attacking its strongest point—in this case, you. You strike the point least protected and yet most able to cause damage. In the case of the man with the knife, I'd go straight for the family jewels. In the case of Arendelle, Veicht went for your sister.'

The prisoner looked at her, sweat-drenched hair tumbling over his features. 'What better way to strike at the heart of the Snow Queen?'

Elsa had to turn away. The words, flat and without emotion as they were, were biting. _Will Anna never stop being in danger because of me? _

Memories surfaced again.

A figure, frozen solid, one armed raised high as if in supplication, a dead mask of a once living sister. The feel of unfeeling ice beneath Elsa's fingers, as she cradled Anna's face, begging her to hear her once more, a silent and poignant wish whispering from her frozen heart. _Do you want to build a snowman? _

Hearing nothing, seeing nothing, nothing but her own devastated features reflected off the glassy orbs that used to be her sister's eyes.

For a moment, the long-ignored instinct reared up again. Shut the gates, close the door, protect, and conceal. She was tempted to leave the cell now and order Arendelle locked down. To withdraw back within the insular protection of her castle. To order a purge of the city, until the assassins were weeded out. She wanted to hurt them, for hurting those she loved. Hurting Anna.

And then it clicked.

_That's what they wanted all along._

'I see you've gotten my point.' The prisoner piped up. 'They hoped to scare and shock you, and that's why the assassins were dressed like one of your own citizens. You would see ghosts _everywhere. So who is it? Weselton? The Southern Isles? The traitor prince returning for vengeance?_ _Your own people, risen up against you?_' The man pressed the point. 'You'll be spooked, frightened, angry, delirious. A perfect recipe for Arendelle's downfall.'

'This festival was an opportunity for Arendelle to connect and reach out, to potentially harness new relationships to drive your kingdom forward.' He continued. 'Instead, angry and terrified, you would alienate your potential allies. You'll lock down Arendelle, sealing it off, bringing it back to an isolated port kingdom in the middle of nowhere.'

The prisoner coughed once more, then resumed. 'Remember the king Ivan the Fourth of The Russ? What happened after he lost his son, and how the troubles that came upon his empire lasted centuries?'

'And the best part?' The prisoner cocked his head. 'Anna doesn't even have to die. Merely the _threat _of assassination would haunt you to distraction.'

Elsa was at a loss for words. Not only because it all came together and made sense, but because her prisoner—precisely, impossibly, _frighteningly_—had summarised the entirety of her cabinet's counsel during the meeting but two hours ago. Even down to the comparison with King Ivan, which Henningsen had raised in a moment of daring candour.

She shuddered. The fear and anxiety, gathering in her bosom like a murder of crows, now found a new focus.

_What is he capable of?_

She glanced at his manacles and chains. They were secure.

For a second she entertained the fleeting, ridiculous thought that he could somehow ghost through his bindings and eavesdrop wherever he pleased. That he had been present when she took secret counsel. That he was there when she and Anna shared their heartfelt and intimate embrace.

Unbeknownst to her, a thin spiky layer of black ice began extended across the floor from where she stood, sparkling in the dying light. Elsa recovered her composure just in time to see her prisoner flinch as the brittle points of ice crept towards his exposed and unprotected body.

'I'd really rather you didn—' he began, a note of urgency creeping into his voice.

Then the man coughed again, drawing in a sharp and ragged breath, and Elsa was reminded once more of how weak her prisoner was. A sharp man, a dangerous man, but a man and a wounded man no less.

The ice retreated as she regained clarity.

_He's injured. He's weak. He's answering every question._

The queen took a step forward, this time actually concerned for her prisoner. 'Answer another question. This time, I will make sure you are unbound, and I'll have the guards bring in a pillow and blanket for you to rest with.'

There was an audible sigh of—_relief? Gratitude?—_from the prisoner. 'That is the best deal I've heard all day. The cold, my goodness. Do you never notice the cold?' He glanced up at the queen.

Elsa raised an eyebrow.

'Right. The cold probably never bothered you anyway.' The prisoner lowered his head in mock dejection.

Somehow, unthinkably, the mood had lightened. Knowing that her prisoner had need for comfort after all—and the small glow of warmth from her offering it to someone, anyone—had given her back a modicum of control. The tightness in her chest loosened, and in turn the layer of frost that was unconsciously coating her hands and crawling up her arms dissipated.

Elsa would get what she needed from this man. And in a warmer part of her heart, she hoped to ensure that he did not die in prison, though she was far from trusting of his intentions. _I'm not a monster, _Elsa thought, and the thought gave her hope and strength.

'Alright,' she replied. 'You mentioned your employers. Who might they be?'

'Well, humour me first. If you wrote a list of everyone who might want to harm you or your kingdom, who'd be on it?'

'Are you playing with me?' Elsa shot back sharply.

'Well, now that you mention it—'

'You're my prisoner.' Elsa assumed what she hoped was a stony and ruthless tone. _I can scare this guy. _'I could have your freedom and—' _don't stutter, Elsa—_'everything taken from you!'—_smooth_, _Elsa, real smooth_—'and then you will be bound _and _frozen to your bones. So take me seriously.'

_Nice going. _Something about her prisoner, or the way the conversation was going, shot down Elsa's attempts at being menacing and threatening before it ever took off.

'Oof.' The prisoner deflated his cheeks. 'That is _cold_.'

'_Ice _cold, in fact.' Elsa could not help smirking with satisfaction.

'Touché.'

'Indeed.' She countered, smiling again in spite of herself. _This is an interrogation, Elsa! You don't make small talk with your prisoner!_

The whole thing just struck her as bizarre. A queen in a severe and unwelcoming prison cell, standing opposite a wounded prisoner bound in chains, and the two of them were sharing a light moment of levity.

'So yes, just for the sake of argument. Tell me who would benefit most from Arendelle suffering harm.' The prisoner drove the conversation—_interrogation, Elsa, interrogation!_—back on track.

'I would say the Southern Isles and Weselton are top of the list. Beyond that, I would say those that hate magic, seeing as I have just opened Arendelle to all those who have powers like I do.' Elsa decided to play along at the man's game. _If his ego is satisfied, he might end up revealing more than he intends._

'You're missing one key item on the list. Recall the alias Henrik Veicht wore when he landed in your port.'

Elsa thought hard. _What was the name—Morcant? And where have I—_

_Oh._

Her conversation with Henningsen. The diplomatic contingent of Auvernia. And specifically, the name of the representative from the Teine Empire. _Morcant, or whatever barbaric name they choose to call him, _Henningsen had said.

The ancient enemy. The army that her great-great-grandfather had halted at Helheim Fjord, at the cost of his own life.

'The Teine Empire.' Elsa hissed, her tone steely again.

'Well done. For the record, though, it's pronounced _Cheey-nuh. _I know. Don't ask.' The prisoner sounded pleased, almost like a tutor guiding his student, bizarre as it was.

'They were our employers—or rather, highest bidders, though in this case it's almost always one and the same; given their massive wallets and efficient methods of _pruning_ those not well aligned to their interests.'

The chains rattled as he seemed to make a gesture that Elsa failed to appreciate, in the failing light from the window. 'I'm guessing the great and mighty Empire is not so pleased with the rise of small and tiny Arendelle and her queen that can summon blizzards. Spooked, in fact. This is just an educated guess, but this whole fiasco might have been their answer to you.'

Elsa pursed her lips, appreciating the threat. She had no doubt that the situation could easily escalate. In the face of a large empire and a former enemy, Arendelle needed leadership now, more than ever.

'One more question.' Elsa asked. 'You've been talking about _them_, but you told me you were one of these mercenaries. Why did you leave? And if they wanted to kill Anna, why did you—if what you say is true—why did you want to _save_ her? What could you possibly gain?'

For the first time, Elsa sensed that the prisoner was at a loss for words. When he spoke again, she could almost sense the audible veneer of dominance cracking, leaking forth a less calculative motive. _Have I hit a nerve?_

'For one,' he began, 'there is no love lost between the Empire and me. Suffice to say that once, they were all too ready to take a life that they were meant to cherish and protect.'

_Enigmatic, saying much, revealing nothing, _Elsa thought. There was something more.

'And two.' The prisoner continued. 'You may think of me as scum, but even scum has limits. Ending the life of a young girl in one of the most brutal ways known to man, simply for the sake of political expedience, crosses that limit many times over.'

'And three—'

The man hesitated. Though his face was obscured by the mess of tangled brown hair, Elsa's now-adjusted eyes caught the quiver of his lower lip.

'I saw how much you two—sisters—loved each other.' The man spoke finally. This time, there was almost no trace of slickness or dominance in his tone. It was raw. 'Forget the queen and princess—you two were happy as sisters and friends. You relied on each other.'

'I might have—could have—' he continued 'known what that feels like, once. And I will not be the one who stands by while others destroy something so dear.'

There was silence. Surprisingly, the prisoner volunteered to fill it. 'Your sister is right. I am a creep. Alright, I admit it, I was watching when you made that speech. Your oratory skills must have rubbed off on one more listener than you intended.'

For that one brief second, the assassin seemed to be gone, replaced by a boy of the same age.

Elsa drew back. Her heart was conflicted. She came here expecting a hard, calculating, cold assassin, and in fact her expectations were correct. But she certainly did not expect this.

_What's he playing at?_

She steeled herself. He had proven himself dangerous, calculating, and prescient. He had likely also taken acting and deception to an art form. Barely ten minutes ago the aura of predation and menace radiated from her prisoner. Now, she seemed to almost feel some sort of _empathy _for him.

_Getting my guard down, trying to make me careless. _The chill was back in her demeanour. One experience with a chameleon seeking to harm Arendelle—that was far more than enough. She had enough of Hans and Hans-_ish_ tactics.

'That will be all.' Elsa concluded coolly. 'I will order the guards to bring you some clothing and bed materials. I will soon question your fellow—_assassins —_in the city fort.'

'There are no other assassins in your custody.' The man replied.

'We captured about half a dozen of your _friends_—' Elsa began.

'—and you _sent_ them to the city fort. Did you oversee their transfer personally?' His tone had resumed its pragmatic quality.

'No.' Elsa replied simply. Her heart was sinking.

'Then there are _no other assassins_ _in your custody._' He repeated firmer this time. 'And I would suggest examining the roster of guards at your fort very, very carefully.'

Elsa felt nothing but frustration. _Must I always be at the mercy of some devious and cunning plan!_

'I will give two suggestions, Your Majesty, and whether you take them is entirely at your discretion.' The man's tone had changed. Cold, calm, businesslike. _The predator shedding his skin for another one._

'Firstly, I would suggest meeting the captain of the guard to identify the security vulnerabilities for your festival and the best methods to address them. I would further suggest valuing his opinion over those held by the talking rocks you have in your council seats.'

'While I am unsure of his current service in your kingdom,' he continued, 'I can vouch for his brilliant performance ten years ago in foiling three consecutive assassination attempts on the king of Corona. A track record you may find useful.' The prisoner stopped to cough again.

Elsa's lips turned cold again. The pervading, ominous feeling about her prisoner, and what he knew, caught up to her once more. _What kind of man is this?_

'Secondly, you may very clearly inform your council that the attempt on your life was orchestrated by none other than the Teine Empire, in fear of your powers and new rule. Tell them that your—_very cooperative—_prisoner confessed everything under duress. What they do with this information, I leave to the discretion of your cabinet—again, my intelligence on your prime minister is patchy at best, but I am suitably impressed by his credentials and his track record. I have no doubt that you will find a way to turn this to your advantage, given the overwhelmingly negative sentiment among the Nordic kingdoms towards the Empire—most of which comprise your guest list. You may even turn this into a standard for the neighbouring nations to rally around, an anchor to raise support for yourself.'

Elsa clenched her fists tightly, the frost creeping up her fingers again, the black ice now spreading outwards once more. This time, however, the prisoner did not flinch, and merely looked on, intrigued.

'_Why are you telling me this?'_

'Because, Your Majesty, we will be meeting again quite soon. I'd like to keep things interesting.' His tone was almost smug. 'After all, I'm quite a fan of the first rule of espionage.'

He lifted his head, and under the cover of his long unkempt locks, his smile looked as crooked as a jagged knife-cut. '_Never reveal everything you know._'

She had enough. Turning around, she stepped away from the prison. Now that she had taken her focus off her prisoner, she noticed the smell for earnest—pungent, stale and putrid. She could not bear to be in the cell a minute longer. The light was almost gone from the window, replaced by soft moonlight that barely reached beyond the frames of the glass.

'I am curious, my queen.' The prisoner spoke to her back. 'You have not asked my name yet. Not even once.'

'I fail to see the point,' Elsa shot back, not turning around, 'seeing as you will likely not give me your real name in any case.'

'Very true. Show of faith—you can call me what my colleagues call me. A business moniker, if you please. Hansel Falkenrath, at your service. You can call me _Hans,_ for short_._'

Elsa stiffened, her fingers growing cold. The very air seemed to freeze in place.

'On second thought, make that _Hansel. _One extra syllable's nothing, I hope.' The prisoner added, all too hastily, the veneer cracking for the second time. 'Well, I hope this evening's conversation has not cast too much of a pall over things.'

'I will be dealing with the damage _you _and your friends have wrought.' Elsa retorted hotly. 'Whatever comes, and whatever _your people _plan to do, I intend to protect Arendelle. I will protect those I love. And I will make sure,' she turned slightly, determination written over her features, 'that if you are trying to scheme against my kingdom, you will fail. And I will keep you here all your life if I have to.'

There was another rattle of chains and the sound of fabric scraping on stone. Behind her, Elsa could almost sense the prisoner leaning forward.

'Do you trust me, Queen Elsa?' He asked.

Without turning, she replied honestly. 'No.'

'Good.' The prisoner retreated. 'Then those seeking to harm you will find it a difficult task.'

'At the moment, Elsa,' the man concluded, 'fear is your greatest enemy.'

The words, _those exact words_.

Elsa opened the door and left quickly.

* * *

The guards outside stood at attention as soon as the queen emerged, throwing a concerned glance first at her troubled expression and then at the cell door behind her.

'Is everything alright, Your Majesty?' One guard ventured to ask.

'I'm—fine.' Elsa answered, stressing the second word firmly.

She turned to the two guards, and the other two emerging behind them to take over the night shift.

'I would like the prisoner's manacles unbound.'

She paused before adding an afterthought. 'And bring him a blanket and pillow. He appears to be freezing. And make sure he eats. I'd like him in better shape next time.'

The guards exchanged glances, but briefly and expressionlessly. 'Yes, Your Majesty. We will see to it at once.'

She nodded, and hurried to the staircase, eager to escape the confinement of the dark and damp dungeon. Ahead, the torchlight seemed a lot more welcoming the second time, each glowing flame signaling her imminent return to the air and light of the upper floor.

She was halfway up the stairs when she realised she had said _next time._

She ground her teeth with vexation.

She had come to the prisoner's cell, ready to demand answers, to use force if necessary. She had no thought for his well-being when her mind and heart were occupied with that of her sister. She had most definitely never wanted to step into that dungeon if she could help it.

And yet, she had come away with answers, but while they felt complete, they raised more questions than they answered; caused more uncertainty than they assuaged. And more infuriatingly, she had granted the prisoner not only additional bodily freedom, but items of comfort to boot! _What do you owe this man? Why did you make him such an offer in the first place? _

A still, small voice at the back of her head reminded her coolly that she would never have considered reneging on her promise even if she had regretted it. Her father and mother had raised her better than that. A queen was a queen, whether upon the throne or in the confines of a dungeon.

And yet the consternation remained.

_Why do I feel that he led the interview, rather than me?_

_Why did I end up revealing so much about what __**I **__knew?_

And the last part. Dropping the name of the prince that had caused her and her sister so much pain and heartbreak. Casually, at the end of a seemingly innocuous sentence. _Definitely intentional. _Cleverly hitting a pressure point, trying to unnerve her.

_It won't work. _Elsa steeled herself. _I will stand strong._

The clearer air and cleaner light of the palace corridor opened before her, drawing a sigh of relief. As she surmounted the final step, she allowed herself to voice aloud the frustration weighing on her mind.

'How,' she gritted, 'can a weak and chained-up prisoner still have so much _control?_'

* * *

'How,' Hansel mused angrily, head bowed, 'did she make me _lose so much control_?'

He was still feverish, his breathing laboured though stable nonetheless. The pain from his healing wound and the stifling bonds was bearable so long as he continued to sequester his mind against the condition of his body. But despite all that, Hansel had never felt more frustrated at his bonds or bodily weakness before. In his current mood, he would have—physical impossibility notwithstanding—attempted to kick himself. _Weak._

_So let's do a tally here. Here's what you learned from the queen._

_One. Her powers are strong. Your body is probably still half-frostbitten like a raw chicken in an ice-box. She could probably capsize a royal fleet with a single iceberg._

_Two. Her powers are driven greatly by emotion. You saw that yourself, what happened when she was upset. Though most people who witnessed the 'eternal winter' would say the same._

_Three. She and the princess are close and inseparable. Which you already know. Along with all of Arendelle and most of its guests during her opening speech. That's what balconies are for. That's what public displays of affection are for._

_Four. She still bears a grudge against Weselton and the Southern Isles for trying to kill her. Are you surprised? You must be surprised. Shocked. Flabbergasted._

'So you,' Hansel spoke, still to himself, 'haven't gotten jack squat that you haven't already known or guessed.'

_Now, the fun part. Here's what you gave away._

_One. You pretty much laid the entire operation in front of her like an open toy box, down to your captain's name and cover identity. True, you no longer owe them anything since you—__**stupidly**__—decided to cut ties. Still._

_Two. You revealed how physically weak you were. Granted, it's to be expected, but it does put 'negotiating from a position of strength' out of the way. And you weren't shy about telling her._

_Three. You revealed the real big shots behind the assignment. Along with a little lecture about their motives and rationale. You probably just started a war._

_Four. You even taught her how to pronounce the damn name correctly._

_Five—_Hansel swore out loud. The discrepancy between gains and losses was not looking good.

_The queen could write a whole book on your life story based on what you told her._

_Six. You had to go and involve personal feelings on your tragic childhood in this interrogation. You may as well have gone and gently laid your nuts in the clutches of your interrogator._

_Seven. You revealed the little you know about Arendelle and its government. Forget your posturing, you just violated Rule One six ways to Friday. And to a queen who's got half a mind to execute you, no less._

_Eight. You gave her advice. __**Advice.**_

_**Nine. 'You can call me Hans, for short.' You hear that sound? That's the sound of all the idiots from the beginning of time rising from their graves to applaud you.**_

'In short, Hansel.' He was still talking to himself—_it's perfectly acceptable. Who else am I going to talk to? _'In short, you've revealed more on your first interrogation that a swooning love-struck lass on her wedding night.'

He had been imprisoned by vengeful dukes and barons, held captive by rogue warlords. He had not cracked. And yet a young queen, barely half a year into her reign, unschooled in the art of interrogation, had done what none of his previous captors could.

_Made him talk._

If he could have bashed his head on the floor, in spite of his bonds, he would have.

_What is it about the queen that made you so talkative, so __**amateur**__?_

'Hansel you idiot.'

_You adolescent idiot._

_She is beautiful, though._

'You _creepy _idiot.'

* * *

The hours had ticked by. Talking turned to listening, listening turned to cuddling, cuddling turned to sleeping and just being content with each other. Kristoff gently stroked Anna's hair, brushing her braids. She purred softly and snuggled further into his shoulder, her sleeping form curled around his waist like a perfect fit.

_She's so beautiful._

The thought both warmed and broke his heart.

It was six months ago, but to him it was but yesterday. Anna stumbling weakly in the blizzard, , her hair now completely white. Him tearing across the ice, desperate and breathless. Arriving too late. Seeing her gone, replaced by solid ice.

Kristoff had never felt more terrified before. Until today.

_I won't lose her again. I can't._

He held her sleeping, peaceful face in his gaze. He needed to look at her. _Needed_, like he needed to breathe or needed to eat. Because deep in his heart, he was somehow—stupidly, frighteningly—afraid that if he looked away, when he looked back she would be gone and he would be hugging an ice statue of Anna with its face staring at him and reminding him that he didn't reach her in time.

_I failed again._

When he tackled the strange man—the one Elsa now held prisoner—he felt nothing but anger. He thought of nothing but getting him as far away from Anna as possible. And when he failed, when the man wriggled out from under him and slammed him to the ice, Kristoff felt more than pain. He felt lost. And he felt afraid. Afraid that his failure had just cost him Anna's life.

The thought made the anger rise again. _Whoever this man is, I will get answers from him, one way or another. I don't care if he's in the dungeon. I will find him myself. _

Anger felt good. Kristoff let himself feel angry, down to his fingers and toes. Letting the heat reach his head until his face flushed.

Because feeling angry was better than feeling scared or sad.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.

He was about to yell back that Anna was asleep, before he caught himself as his brain went _yelling will wake her up! _He was about to find some other way to let whoever was at the door know that it wasn't a good time, when Anna settled the matter herself.

The princess wriggled out from his hug, her expression still sleepy but still steady on her feet. 'Come in!'

The door opened, and a young girl with brown hair popped out from behind it. Behind her, a much taller man appeared. It took a moment before Kristoff realised it was Eugene and the princess—_Rapunzel, I think_.

'Rapunzel! Eugene!' Anna greeted, with surprising energy.

The brown-haired princess rushed forward. There was worry all over her face, and as she took hold of Anna's hands, Kristoff could almost see tears at the corners of her eyes. Behind her, Eugene followed like a guardian angel, looking equally worried.

'Anna, are you alright?' Rapunzel wrung her hands. 'Are you hurt? We were so—I'm so, so sorry, I shouldn't have left you there—there alone—'

'I'm fine, I'm fine,' Anna laughed a little. 'Don't worry! Hey, I'm just sorry that I lost the chocolates.'

'Oh…' Rapunzel said no more as she hugged Anna tightly, and for a minute or two there was just silence as the two princesses stayed in each other's arms.

Kristoff glanced at Eugene. 'Where were you? What happened to both of you?'

The concerned expression on Eugene's face was still there. 'Rapunzel came back to the town square, said that Anna was getting some chocolates. We went in for a bit because she wanted to see the inside of the castle, and Elsa took us for a tour. Then we heard the noise outside the castle, and when we got there we saw Anna injured and Elsa freezing a man. We accompanied them back to the castle gates, but then we were recalled back to our ship. We got here as quick as we could once we cleared things with both our guards and yours.'

'I'm sorry.' Eugene looked right at Kristoff, then at Anna, who was staring at him, surprised by his apology. 'If I was there, I could have helped, could have tried…'

Kristoff's own frown softened. 'It's alright. It happened really fast. I was lucky to be there myself.'

Inside, he had to be honest—he did resent Eugene for not being there. It wasn't his fault, and it wasn't fair to anyone, but Kristoff couldn't help thinking that if Eugene was who he said he was—with all the stories he told Kristoff that afternoon—he could have easily stopped the people who tried to kill Anna. He could have done a better job than Kristoff.

_Stop it. Stop blaming Eugene. Stop blaming __**yourself.**_

The door opened again. This time, it was Queen Elsa.

She looked shaken and more worried than everyone in the room combined.

'Queen Elsa!' Rapunzel spoke first.

'Hello Rapunzel, hello Eugene.' Elsa greeted wearily. 'I'm sorry I had to keep both of you waiting.'

'Where were you, Elsa?' Anna piped up.

Elsa sighed. 'In the dungeon. Talking to the prisoner.'

Instantly, every single person in the room stiffened and paid attention. None more so than Kristoff.

'What did he say?' Anna stepped closer to her sister.

Kristoff expected to hear: _nothing_. And then a vivid image popped into his head; him stomping off to the dungeon and punching the prisoner over and over until, gagging and crying, he spat out everything he knew.

Instead, Elsa began to speak. And for the next few minutes, everyone listened silently as the queen told them about this strange man and the stories he told her.

A lot of it went over Kristoff's head. What was important, though, was that Elsa seemed to believe that the man was trying to _save _Anna. Or at least, she said that the man told her so.

Kristoff frowned. Part of him entertained the thought that he had been entirely mistaken, that the man was really trying to help. Then he put his finger to his bruised nose. The pain brought the anger back.

_I don't trust him. I don't believe any of this._

At the end of her story, Elsa looked exhausted and Anna looked both shocked and worried. Rapunzel had drawn close to Eugene, her arm around his, while Eugene himself was biting his lip.

'I will be meeting with the Council again tomorrow. We have to do something, to protect Arendelle and our guests, to make sure that the festival can carry on. It will be a long day.' Elsa ended her sentence with a sigh.

'Your prisoner...did he tell you who he was?' Rapunzel murmured worriedly.

'He told me his name—it was a fake name, but he said that was what people called him.' Elsa continued. 'He said he worked with other people before—spies, thieves and thugs-for-hire.'

'So what did he call himself?' Anna whispered.

'He said it was Hansel. Hansel Falk—_something_.'

Kristoff was still looking at Eugene. At the sound of his name, Eugene's face suddenly turned pale and his eyes went wide.

'Eugene? You look like you've heard the name before.' Kristoff spoke at once, and everyone suddenly turned to look first at him and then at Eugene.

'I should,' Eugene replied softly, biting his lip so hard that it turned strawberry-red.

'I used to work with Hansel Falkenrath.'

* * *

**This chapter was a real challenge to write. Making the interrogation and the tension between Elsa and Hansel believable was difficult, but I hope I've done alright. I drew loose inspiration from the interrogation of John Harrison/Khan by Capt. James Kirk aboard the Enterprise in _Star Trek: Into Darkness_. Hope I did it justice.**

**I've been experimenting with third-person writing styles to reflect the perspective of the character currently in focus, in order to meet halfway between first-person writing and detached omniscient third-person. For instant, when Elsa's the focus of one section, I try to be slightly more descriptive and use higher levels of vocabulary, given her educational background. In contrast, when Kristoff's the focus of another section, I scale it down to more simple language to reflect his way of seeing the world (although in no way implying that he is less intelligent). Please let me know if this works for you, since I'm trying this out for the first time.  
**

**As always, please review to let me know what you think! And see you soon.**


	8. Chapter 8: Without Beauty or Dreams

**A very big thank you to BlueOwl and Keep Calm and Be Ninja for your continued and positive support! **

**And now for something completely different.**

* * *

**Chapter 8: Without Beauty or Dreams**

* * *

**Five Years Ago**

**The Black Forest**

**Seventy miles west of Auvernia**

Flynn Rider gritted his teeth as the howling wind whipped around his ears. Against the rain and cold, he kept his grip on the rope and his eyes on the window above, advancing upward inch by painful inch.

'Couldn't we—have—just used—the front door?' He yelled haltingly over the relentless cacophony of the storm.

'Too—risky!' His companion called back, struggling with his own rope. 'This—way—better!'

Flynn sighed. _A fifty-fifty cut, and we still have to do it __**his **__way._

The deal was simple. Any loot they found together had to be evenly split. Any loot they found on their own, they could keep. Which was why Flynn, in spite of the pounding rain, pushed himself to climb just that little bit faster than his companion.

The bricks of the castle wall were aged and crumbled at the edges. For over fifty years, the castle had been all but deserted. No one in living memory could recall the exact last time anyone had set foot in its halls, or rather returned to the village to tell the tale.

Flynn's companion had spent a week scouting for information. The tales of the castle were conflicting and fantastic. Some spoke of a royal family and the grand galas of their castle, the revelry lasting well into the night. Others spoke, fearfully, of a prowling beast that roamed the halls of the castle, eager for the flesh of unsuspecting travelers.

Finally, however, Flynn's comrade had persuaded him of one very real, very pragmatic threat, echoed by those whose minds were less occupied by nebulous fantasies.

'The Blues will be here soon,' Hansel had warned, referring to the radical separatists that sought to eradicate all traces of Auvernia's imperial heritage. 'We want the loot, we move fast. Once the Blues tear this place down, everything worth taking will be buried under a ton of rubble.'

Flynn got to the window first. Gripping hold of the ledge, he hauled himself up on the narrow slab and kicked the frame. The aged wood and brittle glass gave way with a tinkling shatter.

The thief nimbly leapt through the window. Behind him, the mercenary followed, readying a crossbow.

The hallway was illuminated only by the erratic lightning. Whatever glory that had adorned its walls and ceilings in the past had been scoured clean—whether by thieves or by the unrelenting forces of time and nature, no one knew. Floorboards were torn up, paint peeled, faded square patches indicated where paintings would have once graced the walls. Whether by rats or enterprising 'visitors' coming before him, Flynn got the sinking feeling that the castle had long been picked clean.

'This must be the West Wing.' The thief remarked, lowering his voice in spite of the thunder outside. 'So which way?' Flynn turned to his companion.

'Down the hallway, take a left. If there's anything worth taking, it'll be in the inner chamber.' Hansel stalked forward, crossbow still braced at the shoulder.

The mercenary advanced swiftly but carefully, the crossbow still ready, sweeping the corridor in a wide arc. Hansel's grim expression never relaxed.

'Put that down, the only things here are you and me.' Flynn rolled his eyes. His usual jobs involved stealing valuable relics from treasure rooms guarded by numerous, very-alert guards—compared to that, traipsing around a deserted castle was a cakewalk.

'I once met a bear in the middle of an old castle.' The mercenary replied, his weapon still trained on the darkness ahead. 'Poor thing had gotten in somehow and couldn't get out. Starved half to death. Saw me and went crazy.'

'Oh really. What did you do?'

Hansel's lips twitched. 'I used this,' he tapped the crossbow with his free hand, 'to break a window, and jumped straight out. Broke an arm, sprained both ankles, cracked a rib.'

Flynn grinned. 'Brave man.'

'Courage means knowing when to run, Flynn. That's why I'm alive, and you are too.'

'You sound like an old man, Hans.' Flynn snorted. 'Come on, you're even younger than I am. Loosen up.'

'Youth is wasted on the young, they say.' His companion replied absent-mindedly.

'I taught you a few things, y'know.' Flynn jabbed, lifting the torch to examine the walls—there was barely anything left of the wallpaper. 'Very useful stuff.'

'Like what?'

'The _smolder_, for instance.' Flynn shrugged, matching Hansel's stride. He mimicked the narrowing of the brows, the focused expression of charm and raw attraction that had wooed many a young maiden.

'I will remember to use it the next time I'm being shot at.'

'_Liiiike _you haven't tried using it.' Flynn raised his eyebrows, looking sideways at his companion.

Hansel didn't answer.

'_Oh my goodness _you have tried using it.' Flynn's face split into a wide grin that stretched from ear to ear.

'I will neither confirm nor deny that.' The mercenary countered serenely.

* * *

Hansel tensed as he reached a set of heavy, gloomy-looking double doors. 'We're here. Go ahead, open it.'

'Why am I always the one who has to open a set of heavy, gloomy-looking double doors?' Flynn protested.

'Because if there's something in there, I trust my shooting better than yours.' The mercenary replied flatly.

'Thought you said you were a bad shot,' Flynn grumbled.

'Well, between the two of us—' Hansel riposted, smiling.

Flynn sighed, gripped the handles of both doors, and pulled. The old frames creaked and groaned at the hinges, the rusted iron squealing with protest. Beyond the threshold, there was pitch darkness, unlit even by the bursts of lightning from the window.

Flynn stepped in first, feeling along the wall until he came upon a torch bracket. 'Alright, we've got light.' He retrieved his tinderbox, lit the oil, and led the way with the flaming torch in his hand.

The torchlight penetrated no more than a few feet into the darkness. The floor was in bad shape, with bits of rotted carpet fused with the floorboards. Around him, Flynn spotted the remains of broken furniture and assorted garbage.

'Looks like someone took a hammer to this place.' The thief remarked, sweeping his torch in an arc as he continued to survey the chamber.

As they explored one end of the chamber, the pair passed by a series of portraits. Curious, Flynn moved in for a closer look. A lean, gaunt face, with a merry smirk plastered over it, adorned one portrait. Next to it, the portrait of a stout man with a curled moustache. More portraits stretched further along the length of the wall, beyond the reach of the torchlight.

'Huh. Portraits.' Flynn observed, bored.

'Want to have one of yourself?' Hansel ribbed. 'Look good on a palace wall, rather than a wanted poster?'

'Nah. They won't get my nose right. They never do.'

Strangely, under the first portrait, a candelabra stood on the long table beneath. Next to it, an old mantel clock rested. Arranged along the table, further down, were more knick-knacks and seemingly out-of-place everyday objects.

'Interesting choice of décor.' Flynn remarked curiously.

'Think it's deliberate?' Hansel asked. 'Looks like each one's paired with a portrait.'

'Maybe. Anyhow, none of this stuff's worth anything. Let's keep moving.'

Then a low, guttural cough echoed throughout the chamber and his blood froze.

Beside him, Hansel raised his crossbow, his entire form tense.

_There are no such things as ghosts. _Flynn repeated to himself. He took a step forward.

Beyond, in the darkness he could not see into, he sensed something shifting.

_There are no such things as ghosts. _He held the torch out in front of him, sweeping it from side to side as if it were a sword. _Sword. __**Sword. **__Why didn't I bring one?_

Then he heard—or felt—a presence drawing closer, right in front of him.

And suddenly, a face appeared.

Flynn yelled and sprang backwards. In his shock, however, he had the presence of mind to shout out at his equally tense companion.

'Wait! Don't shoot!' He reached out and grabbed Hansel's crossbow, even as the pair backed away.

The face was old, lined with wrinkles, and long white hair dribbled down the front and sides like threadbare curtains. In the gleam of the torchlight, the eyes—sharp, full of life in spite of their age—shone with an amber glow.

'Good evening, gentlemen. To what do I owe the pleasure?'

* * *

_This is insane._

Flynn sat uncomfortably in the old yet surprisingly comfortable chair, resting his satchel on the chipped mahogany table beside him. In the warm glow of an oil lamp, the old man stirred his teacup serenely, the saucer balanced in his grasp.

Flynn's own cup of tea—kindly offered him by their mysterious host—lay untouched, growing cold in the damp and frigid air of the storm outside. Hansel, as uptight as ever, was still standing, and while he had put away his crossbow, the tense look on his face was still there.

_No one's lived here for more than a hundred years. No one._

_So who is this?_

'You must forgive me for the poor hospitality,' the old man wheezed. 'No one's been here for years. I assume you're here to perhaps find something of value in my castle?'

Flynn coughed and looked away sheepishly.

The strange old man guffawed. 'Oh no, my boy. By all means, help yourself if you can find anything you take a fancy to. Although I fear that most of the castle has already been broken down by storms or flooded by the rain.'

He sipped roughly from the cup, spilling droplets of tea on the table. 'In any case, I'm too old to be wandering about the castle or enjoying its riches. I spend every day in this room. Food, clothing, bed, other necessities.'

He gestured around the chamber, and Flynn followed his gesture. On a second glance, the room wasn't as messy and haphazard as he had thought. In this little space at the end of the chamber, the man had carved out a neat, small little living space, with a mattress spread out on the floor, a few tables nearby, and a wardrobe arranged against the wall. Nothing was more than a few feet away from anything else.

'It is strangely cruel, in a way,' the old man smiled wanly. 'I used to be lord of this whole castle, free to roam it wherever I please, yet I cursed and complained over being trapped behind its walls. And now, I find myself being free to go wherever I please—yet my own frail, aged body holds me prisoner.' He sighed. 'Perhaps the curse laid upon my body strikes twice in one lifetime.'

'I know who you are.' Hansel spoke suddenly, moving closer to the lamplight.

The mercenary leaned in closer, making eye contact with the old man. 'You're Prince Adam.'

Flynn started. 'Adam? As in the one in the stories? You?'

The old man chuckled, his wrinkled face breaking into a smile. 'Nobody has called me that in nearly fifty years. Those to whom I was a prince right and true—well, have long since left this good earth.'

A pall came over his features, as his gaze fell downwards. 'Yet I remain here.'

'Other people used to live here?' Flynn asked, leaning closer.

The old man now turned to him. 'Yes. My friends—and my love. All of which have left, now. Left where I cannot go, save by one way.'

Hansel stepped closer into the light. 'If you are Prince Adam—you must be…a hundred and thirty years old by now.'

In shock, Flynn stared first at Hansel, and then at the aged prince.

The old man nodded. 'Has it been that long? I suppose age—age makes one lose track of time.'

'A hundred and thirty years.' His wizened features clouded over with sorrow, his eyes cast down. 'Far too long,' he mumbled, 'far too long.'

'So,' Flynn asked hesitantly, 'how are you still alive?'

A gleam shone from the old man's sunken eyes. 'I feed on the flesh of unwary visitors to my castle. Like you two fine young gentlemen.'

Flynn yelped, jumping from his chair.

The old prince laughed this time, a full-bellied, hearty laugh. 'I jest, I jest. In truth, I don't know. It might be the effects of the curse put upon me so very long ago. Old Lumiere, he lived another seventy years after he was changed back—and he was twice my age to begin with.'

'Changed—you mean in the story? That means—' Flynn mused aloud. 'That means you are—the _**beast**_?'

'I was.' The prince answered. 'Until the spell was lifted—only one who loved me as I was, beastly and fearsome and terrible, could break the curse. True love, pure and strong.'

The old man's eyes misted over, as the two younger men listened in silence. 'My _Belle. _Beautiful, strong, intelligent, stubborn…'

He sighed, the heartache apparent. '…and _gone_.'

'What happened?' Flynn whispered.

'_Life _happened. She lived out her days, happy and at peace. Then she passed, at the ripe old age of seventy. It was _our _lives that were unnatural—we who were once under the spell, we aged slower. I have never felt more pain than that day when, gazing upon her kind, wrinkled, grey features, I felt the strength of youth still surging through my body—unwelcome, unfair, unjust.'

'Since then, it was not the same. Without her, none of us were the same. We moved about, we kept the castle alive, but it would never again be truly alive without her. Then, one by one, we succumbed to the inevitable. Growing weak, losing strength and sight, as all living creatures must.' The soft tones of regret tinged every word from the lips of the prince.

Flynn recalled the series of portraits running along the wall, and the strange objects arranged below them. It suddenly made sense. _His friends. Rather, his family._

'I was the last to age,' the prince continued. 'They were once my servants, and called me master and prince, but in the twilight of their years I was the one at their beck and call. I fed them, tended to them, bathed them when they had lost the strength to do so. And as time—cruel time, unrelenting time—passed again and again, I laid them to rest myself in the grounds of the castle. One by one. Until—'

He spread his arms in a shrug, exuding both sorrow and resignation. 'Until I alone remain.'

Flynn sat nervously, staring firmly his cup of tea. The peach liquid was stagnant and unmoving. Nobody spoke.

_This is why I'm not good with back-stories, _the thief thought.

The prince himself broke the silence, with a heaving sigh. 'Alright. I wager that you have not come here to listen to an old man's tragic story. What can I help you gentlemen find in my humble castle?'

_Okay, since you asked…_

'Anything here still worth something? Crown jewels, gold, silver, that sort of stuff?' Flynn asked, looking left and right at the flotsam piled around them. _This doesn't look like a palace, _he thought as he looked around at the piles of broken furniture and torn curtain drapes piled haphazardly, the mellow lamplight making them look even gloomier_. This looks like the place I grew up in._

The prince shrugged. 'Old books, centuries-old tomes. Maybe worth something to collectors.'

Flynn's heart sank. _Pouring rain, a hundred foot climb, and this is what I'll take back? __**Books?**_

'She used to make me read, you know.' The prince's eyes misted over again with reminiscence. 'Discussed book after book, every day at dinner. Quizzed me on history, literature, poetry, anything she could get her hands on. She had never looked more alive or hungry than in the library.'

The prince paused, and added with a twinkle in his eye. 'Well, except perhaps for the bedroom.'

Flynn did a double take. _Seriously?_

'There is something I'd like to ask,' Hansel chipped in, his voice taking on a serious tone. 'Something you might have.'

'And what might that be, boy?' The old man inquired.

'The manuscripts of Maurice the Inventor. I was told that some original pages may survive here in this castle.' Hansel glanced around the room.

If it was boring old papers that his mercenary friend was after, Flynn couldn't care less. Standing quietly from his chair, the rogue slipped behind the nearest disorganised pile of furniture. _There has to be something here I can take back._

'Ah, dear old Maurice.' The prince fell back into reverie. 'He was always working, always tinkering on something new, and Belle was always going back time and again to help him out of his latest mess. He never quite got comfortable around me, you know—he had seen me in my beastly form before the curse was lifted, and ever since then he had been jittery around me, never staying the night in my castle no matter how often I offered. But when he passed, he was kind enough to entrust me with the remainder of his work.'

'I wish to acquire those pages. At any price you name.' Hansel spoke briskly and flatly.

Flynn reflected that his companion had a way of making even an offer sound like a threat.

'And what would you do with them?' The prince replied, looking at Hansel.

'My employers are interested in putting his ideas and designs to practical use.' Hansel looked intently into the old man's eyes. 'Making his machines a reality. And those manuscripts would be absolutely vital to their efforts.'

Flynn shook his head as he rifled through a nearby drawer. _His job is boring. _On the other hand, he just found a necklace in the drawer among piles of dirt. He quickly slipped it into his pocket. _I'll look at it later. Please let it have an opal or something shiny._

Hansel gave pause before continuing. 'I understand how he was ridiculed in his lifetime. How people laughed at him and called him mad, how he died without anyone recognising just what a _genius _he was in his time.'

The prince looked downcast, and stroked his beard thoughtfully.

'He deserves better, and I can give him better.' Hansel pressed the point. 'The world will know his work and the great mind that he had. All I need are the manuscripts now in your safekeeping.'

'He loved them dearly. Those designs—they were _treasures _to him,' the prince mumbled.

_The only treasure still left in this castle, I think. _Flynn was getting annoyed; he had gotten to his fifth drawer and turned up nothing else. There was just about nothing left. _He's been here for more than a hundred years. Food, water, clothing—it ain't paying for itself, even for a prince. _All the treasure of the castle must have been pawned off for the castle's upkeep long before Flynn or Hansel were even born.

'And these manuscripts will remain lost treasures here in this castle. Once you have passed from this world and no longer remain to care for them, they will rot and fade, and become as nothing.' Hansel's sales pitch was in full swing.

'But give them to me, and they can become _alive_. His creations will be _real_. In a way, Prince Adam, you can allow Maurice of Auvernia to live forever through his designs.' The mercenary leaned forward, and to Flynn's enormous surprise, he was using a variant of an expression that Flynn had taught him personally. _Seriously? The __**smolder**__? You clever devil._

Flynn saw the prince's jaw grind in furious thought. He couldn't resist a smile.

_Hansel, you could sell seawater to a mermaid._

Of course, Hansel had also offered Flynn a very generous thirty percent cut from his employers' reward for the manuscripts. _Services rendered. _Which was why he felt a thrill of satisfaction when the old prince nodded at last.

'Very well.' Wearily, the old man got up from his chair, gripping the table for support. He hobbled over to a bookshelf a few steps away and retrieved a yellow folio. He earnestly pressed it into Hansel's hands, his own aged hands trembling with emotion.

'Take this. Take it and make his dreams real.' The prince's eyes were moist. 'It's the least I can do for dear old Papa.'

Hansel nodded. 'I would be pleased to offer—'

The elderly man waved tiredly. 'Just make this happen. I—I will trust you. Knowing that his dreams live on, it's reward enough for a tired old man.'

Hansel nodded wordlessly. The folder had disappeared in a flash, spirited away into his coat pocket.

'There is—one other thing, Prince Adam.' The mercenary spoke again, and this time Flynn sensed gravity behind his voice that wasn't there before.

'I am told that you were in possession of a certain mirror with—_unique _qualities.' Hansel drew closer, level with the prince who was still standing next to the bookshelf. 'A mirror able to see anything you wished it to see, so long as you named it.'

_Magic mirror? _Flynn's attention peaked.

This time, the air _definitely _got colder. The thunder outside got louder too. And Flynn saw the prince's face darken.

'I do not wish to speak of it.' The old man's tone was firm—the wheezy, dreamy voice was gone.

Hansel gave the prince a moment of silence. _Like a swordsman, stepping back to prepare for another strike, _Flynn mused.

'This time, I _do _have something concrete to offer.' Hansel finally struck.

'What would you possibly give for something like that?' The prince retorted.

Slowly, painfully, the prince stretched upward as tall as he could. And it was now that Flynn remembered that Hansel was not outrageously tall; in his prime, the prince would have easily towered over Hansel by at least a foot. Now, however, bent with age and weakness, the old man only succeeded in raising his face to Hansel's chin.

'I can provide protection, for you and this castle.' The mercenary countered.

'What do you mean? Protection from _what_?'

Hansel strode to the nearby window, glancing out. 'It's only a matter of time before the Blue Coats come upon your castle. They are a militant group of fanatics, bent on destroying every trace of Auvernia's imperial history—including your castle. We found them searching the nearby countryside, in some sort of crusade or witch-hunt. Soon they will find your castle, whether in days or a week, it matters not.'

Flynn tried to mask his expression. _You smart scumbag.__ Having the Blues on our trail was part of your plan all along—a bargaining chip to use here and now._

'If you would just use your mirror to look at the countryside, you will know this to be true. They number a whole hundred strong, and are armed to the teeth. They have burned down or torn apart several palaces already in their insane quest. Yours will be added to the fire.'

The prince's face registered nothing but blank shock.

'As you said, your time on this earth may be at an end. But this castle—do you not have a duty to see it stand? The memories, the tales older than time, the songs older than rhyme—do they not deserve to live on within the happy halls of your youth, and not among burned rubble?'

The prince slumped into his chair, anguish written on his face. 'This castle…_her _castle…'

He sighed—a shuddering, heartrending noise. Then—

'I don't have it.'

Flynn and Hansel both said _'what?' _at the same time.

'I gave the mirror to little Chip, fifty years ago. He was the youngest among us, and we—me, his mother, Cogsworth and the rest—convinced him to seek his fortune out in the world beyond the castle. For one still so young—at least on the outside—to remain in an old castle as it decayed and lost itself to age, it didn't feel right. I gave him the mirror—my eyes were too bad to use it anymore—and told him it would serve him well.'

'And where did this boy, this _Chip_, where did he go?' Flynn asked hastily, his heart sinking as he knew that it didn't matter. _He left fifty years ago. Who knows if he's even alive?_

'He didn't say, probably didn't know. I suggested that he find his fortune across the sea to the Western Isles, or even perhaps north to the port cities of the snow-lands. He wrote back once, saying he was near a place called Weasel-town or something. But I never received another letter since. I don't believe that Chip had forgotten about us. Rather—I think that from that time on, there was no one left who was willing to approach the old, strange castle in the woods, let alone deliver letters to it. And later still, we were forgotten altogether.'

'So the mirror is as good as gone.' Flynn put his hands behind his head, groaning in frustration.

'I should hope so,' the prince put in, this time a trace of hard anger creeping into his voice. 'In my time of imprisonment, it was my only link to the outside world. It was part of this castle. If Chip is no longer with this earth, I earnestly hope that he took it with him to the grave.'

He slumped back, and suddenly looked so much older. Barely skin and bones, his faded and threadbare clothes hanging about him like a shroud.

Hansel was leaning against a collapsed cabinet, thinking. Quickly, Flynn strode over to him and whispered close to his ear.

'That's it. There's nothing else to take. Our job is done.'

The mercenary didn't meet his gaze. 'Yeah. We got what we came for.'

Hansel was still thinking. Hard.

'So what're you thinking about? Let's go.' Flynn urged. The castle was dingy, the prince was creeping him out, and the storm was dying down.

'Prince Adam,' Hansel spoke suddenly, rising to his feet. 'It appears that our business is done. I will see to it that the work of Maurice the Inventor reaches the right hands.'

The old prince nodded, sorrow still apparent on his features. _We just told him that his castle is about to be destroyed, _Flynn reflected, and suddenly felt a pang of guilt. _He's dying anyway, _the more practical part of him replied, _and besides, what can we do for him now?_

_Still—_

'But my offer still stands.' Hansel stepped forward, slinging the crossbow across his shoulder. 'I am willing to stay and protect your castle.'

'Wait, what?' Flynn was aghast.

'I have nothing to offer you, boy.' The old man murmured. 'If you are hoping for a reward—'

'This is on my own volition. The Blues will not lay a single brand on the stones of your castle. I will see to it.'

A look of incredulity came over the old man's face. 'One hundred men—'

'—are not enough.' Hansel interjected, his expression firm.

_Not a boast, not a stupid promise, _Flynn thought frantically. _Just a statement._

_He's actually going to do this._

'This wasn't part of the deal, Hans.' Flynn rounded on his companion, hissing angrily. 'We get in, we get out. I need to get paid. I'm not staying back to help some old man with his half-flooded castle. Sorry, prince,' he turned to the man, speaking louder, 'tough luck, but it's not happening.'

Wordlessly, Hansel reached into his coat and retrieved a pouch, tossing it towards Flynn. He caught it quickly. It was heavy, and jingled.

'Your share of the reward, paid up front.' Hansel spoke matter-of-factly, turning to his companion. 'Consider your payment settled.'

'Hans, _you're not doing this._' Flynn hissed, a note of worry creeping into his voice. He was a thief, but there was honour among thieves, and honour meant not leaving a companion behind to commit suicide. 'There are—One! Hundred!—of those crazy people coming this way. There are two of you! Well, to be frank, one and a half!'

'My hearing works just fine, boy.' The prince interrupted, clearly miffed.

'You need to leave.' Hansel cut across Flynn's frantic hissing.

'_I'm not leaving just like that!_'

'I'm not asking you to just turn tail and get out. I paid you fifty percent instead of thirty.' The mercenary pointed to the pouch still clutched in Flynn's hand. 'One final service rendered on your way out.'

'What's that?' Flynn massaged his aching head. _Okay, what crazy scheme is he cooking up?_

'Head into town, make as much noise as you can. Rant, rave, make sure the Blues get to hear you, in person if possible.'

Hansel cocked his head, a thin smile on his features. 'Tell them that a fearsome beast lurks in the castle and the woods, and it devoured your friend whole. You escaped alive. Play the part of the crazed terrified madman.'

'You _seriously think _that's going to drive them away?' Flynn was right. His companion was completely bananas.

'Of course not. It's the opening act. I will take care of the main event.' The mercenary squared his shoulders.

'What are you saying, boy? Why are you doing this?' The old prince was now genuinely puzzled. He leaned forward in his chair, his expression now confused. And something more—hope?

The mercenary threw a glance at the aged man sitting in his chair, surrounded by fragments of his past.

'Because fairy tales never have happy endings,' Hansel replied. 'But once in a while, we get the chance to make them end a little better. Let's take that chance this time.'

'Wait wait wait.' Flynn interrupted his friend. 'You against the whole damn world? With what army?'

The mercenary pointed at his own rucksack. 'If my mentor—crooked man that he is—ever taught me anything,' Hansel continued, the _annoying _grin still on his features, 'it's that I shouldn't reveal everything I know. So let's keep this secret under wraps.'

'You've got your dream, Flynn.' Hansel jerked his chin at the thief's direction. 'Go get your island, go earn your big piles of money. But people like me—'

The mercenary actually smiled. 'Without a dream, you'll be surprised how much you're willing to risk losing.'

He gestured at the open door at the end of the chamber. 'You should go, Flynn. Get a head start.'

The rogue had already started to back away from them. It wasn't easy for Flynn to walk away. On and off, about a job every three months, Hansel had been a pain to work with—so meticulous and calculating, always roping Flynn in with some sort of intricate plan that turned a glorious adventure into a boring procedure. He got the job done, of course, earning Flynn a tidy and reliable sum every now and then. And in a fight, Flynn suspected that Hansel's swordsmanship could rival even his own.

But they were never really friends—friendship was cheap in the 'business.' You made partners, teammates, people you spent time with temporarily for the sake of a common goal. But you don't open up or share backstories. Nobody was good with backstories.

And now here was the cold, calculating mercenary, throwing everything away on a whim for absolutely nothing. Crazy, stupid. _Better to cut your losses and go, Flynn._

But he walked away with reluctance.

And as he strode away from the chamber, the lamplight fading behind him, the darkness closing in, he heard his former companion's voice a final time, echoing in the dark, gloomy shadows of the chamber, amidst the forgotten detritus of memory.

'Now, Prince Adam. We have work to do.'

Flynn Rider never saw Hansel Falkenrath again.

* * *

Eugene Fitzherbert, consort of Rapunzel, Princess of Corona, finished his tale, sighing with exhaustion, pulling himself back to the present time. Much had changed in five years. He had buried Flynn Rider. He had found a new dream. He had put the past in the past and it had never come back.

Until now.

Rapunzel was gripping his arm so tightly that it nearly hurt, her deep lovely green eyes staring into his. Her face was screwed up with concern. 'Eugene, you never told me any of this.'

Her tone wasn't accusatory or anything. Just—surprised.

Flyn—_Eugene _sighed. 'I guess I wanted to put it all behind me.'

'So what happened to the old prince in the end?' Princess Anna asked, her own eyes wide with rapt attention.

'I don't know,' Eugene answered. 'He's probably dead by now. I went to the village, did the whole act, made sure the Blues could hear me. Last I heard, they never reached the castle. And ever since then people have been going on and on about the monster lurking in those forests. I guess Hansel pulled it off, after all.'

'And that boy, Chip? Did you ever find him?' Rapunzel asked.

Eugene shook his head. 'I didn't think it worth my time to chase a fifty year-old lead, so I dropped the whole thing. Never heard about it—or him—again.'

'Elsa, you're zoning out again.' Anna poked at her sister's tummy.

The queen jerked back to attention. 'Sorry. It's just that I'll have to meet with the Council again tomorrow. Work out some sort of plan to get all this under control. We have to let the festival go on.'

'You can do it, Elsa.' Rapunzel beamed, her expression earnest and (to Eugene) absolutely adorable. 'I know you can.'

Elsa smiled in spite of herself. _If only I had as much faith in myself._

'The guy I knew,' Eugene continued, 'he was all tough as nails and serious all the time. Like some _machine_, always talking about the assignment. Wouldn't enter a tavern with me unless it was to gather information. But what I sensed, what I knew that day when he stayed back in the castle five years ago…'

Flynn shook his head. 'Guys like us, we've all got some dream, some fancy idea that we'd boast about to each other over drinks. And Hansel—from what I guessed at, he earned a _lot_. Whoever hired him paid him well. But we never saw any trace of the money. He never talked about any of his dreams, any plans he had for getting rich. Sure, we would see new equipment, new clothes for disguises—but after that, nothing. Nothing to show that he was any richer than when he started off.'

'I had a stupid dream once—until I exchanged it for something better. _Someone _better. Until Blondie here became my new dream.' He held Rapunzel's hand, and the look they gave each other spoke more than words ever could.

'But Hansel scared me a little inside, because you can _sense _when a man doesn't have a dream like yours. And that's scary, because if you know nothing about someone's dream, you know nothing about him.'

Eugene stared into the distance, his speech slowing down. 'But there is one story I remember better than this one. Once we were escaping a cave where some guards had stored treasure. On the way out, we had to knock out some guards. I wanted to leave, because the cave was big and I didn't want to get lost. But him—'

The former thief swallowed, before continuing. 'He actually ditched our supplies—food and water, leaving them in the cave for the guards to collect when they woke up. Including a tinderbox and firewood. And on the way out, he carved markings on the cave walls every ten steps or so, all the way till we came out of the cave.'

Eugene wiped his brow. 'He's ruthless when he needs to be. He is cold like a machine. But he's not a murderer. Not the Hansel I know.'

Concluding his tale, he hugged Rapunzel close again, and the two whispered words of affection lost to all other listeners.

'Thank you for telling us about this man, Eugene,' said Queen Elsa serenely.

Inside, however, her thoughts were running quick again.

Whatever glowing thoughts Eugene had about his former friend, one phrase stood out starkly in Elsa's mind.

'_Last I heard, they never reached the castle.'_

A man who could take on an army of a hundred and cut them down? A man _willing _to do so?

Eugene's story had convinced her, once and for all, that the prisoner in her dungeon was dangerous beyond belief.

'I'll instruct the guards to double the watch on this man's cell—this _Hansel_.' Elsa intoned firmly. 'He is dangerous. Whatever plans we make for the Frozen Festival, he is a big threat to all of them.'

Rapunzel and Eugene both nodded, with Eugene sighing resignedly. Unexpectedly though, he interjected. 'You might, but I wouldn't bother.'

Elsa looked at him in surprise. Next to him, Rapunzel hissed. '_Eugene!_'

'I mean, I don't see the point of adding more guards to the prison.' The ex-rogue continued bluntly, while Rapunzel was tugging at his sleeve, evidently embarrassed. 'It's a waste of your time and effort.'

Elsa stiffened. She had warmed up to Rapunzel well enough, but years of isolation had made distrust and aloofness a regrettable second nature. She certainly trusted Eugene, and liked him well enough. But she was well aware of his past.

'Are you saying this because he used to be your friend? Or you're guilty, for leaving him behind in that castle so many years ago?' Elsa asked pointedly.

Anna looked nervous. Kristoff was scowling at Eugene. Rapunzel looked absolutely mortified.

Eugene shook his head calmly, unfazed. 'No, Your Majesty. It's because the only reason your prisoner is still your prisoner, is that he _wants _to be there for some reason.'

'If he's as cunning as the man I once knew, I know one thing for sure.' Eugene continued, and finished ominously, his lips curling into a smile that clashed with the frowns all around.

'Nobody has yet built a prison capable of holding Hansel Falkenrath.'

* * *

**You guys have been a great bunch to write for! As usual, please read, review, favourite, follow and flame :) I look forward to seeing you again!**

* * *

**P.S. One thing. Some of you might have noticed the not-too-subtle crossover with any Disney work in this chapter. I understand how divisive crossovers as a genre can be to readers; some love seeing familiar characters integrated with another work, others simply hate the whole thing as a poor tactic to grab hold of two fandoms' attentions in one go.**

**So just a little disclaimer. I personally feel that unless _specifically _written as a crossover, a good original story can be enjoyed on its own merit, and a reader should not have to read up on the background work for three or four fandoms before being able to follow the plot. **

**So I do promise this; spotting the crossover references I make will be a bonus to readers, but will not detract from the story, and I am committed to writing a story that can be enjoyed on its own right. If you like 'em, you'll hopefully be entertained by the references and integration of the different universes. If you hate 'em, the story will still be coherent and enjoyable without any background apart from that of _Frozen. _**

**And the most important promise: no other universe, no other work, will ever take precedence over _Frozen_.**

**Phew, now that that's out of the way, on with it! Y'all tired of Hansel yet? Very well then. Next chapter, BRING ON THE ELSANNA!**

**Well...not really. But some company is certainly overdue for those two. Brace for my first attempts at tackling fluff and angst. **


	9. Chapter 9: Quarter to Midnight

**A massive thank you to Fantabulous Fantabulism, JuneMermaid03, Keep Calm and Be Ninja, and BlueOwl for your support and reviews! This newbie really appreciates the professional assistance.**

**And now for my greatest challenge thus far. Fluff, angst, and songwriting. *Takes a breath* Here goes.**

* * *

**Chapter 9: Quarter to Midnight**

* * *

'That was a _little _rough, sis.' Anna flicked the braid on Elsa's hair.

'Hey, it's been a tense day,' Elsa sighed as she sunk back into the couch, enlarging the indent already carved out by her sister's body.

'Snappy queen.' Anna pitched a pillow playfully at her sister.

'You should be resting, Anna.'

'I just slept for _hours_. Let's talk.' Anna leaned forward, her head braced against the side of the couch. She undid the uncomfortable braid on her head, and the mass of frizzy red hair sprung loose.

'About what?'

'About what's on your mind right now.'

Elsa froze, but very quickly forced herself back into a serene state of mind. 'I have many, many more things to take care of. The festival must go on, for instance. And I must see to it that our guests are treated well. Arendelle's future depends on this event.'

Anna rolled over onto her back, her head now beside her sister's. 'Aww come on, private sister bonding time. No work talk, okay?'

'Hey, you asked for what's on my mind.' Elsa retorted, adjusting her braid away from her face. She settled back into a more comfortable position, the icy dress slinking smoothly along the fabric of the couch. Her sister's own olive green dress—still tattered, _Anna why haven't you changed—_crumpled up to her knees, completely unprincess-like.

'Alright Anna,' Elsa sighed. 'I'm just so worried.'

Anna rolled her eyes. 'Well that's new.'

Elsa groaned, covering her face with an icy sleeve. 'There's just _so much_. So much is happening, so much needs to be done. I don't know if I can do it. If I can make the right decisions. And now, I _know _that Arendelle has enemies again. Enemies that want to _hurt _us.'

'Elsa, you're the queen. You _always _make the right decisions. Wait. Well, I wouldn't say _always_, but you're more likely to make a good decision than not. Close enough.'

'Is this your way of cheering me up?'

'Look.' Anna rolled over onto her front, resting her chin on her two hands. 'I'm here for you, alright? And I know you **can **make the right decisions. And you **won't **let some creepy prisoner or an assassination attempt or two get in your way.' Anna fluttered her fingers awkwardly.

'It's not just—it's not just that.' Elsa gulped. 'I've got—lately, I've got—things on my mind.'

Propping herself up on her elbows, Anna inched closer to her sister, her expression one of concern. 'Okay. Talk to me Elsa. I've seen you like this before.'

It was like opening a floodgate.

'I almost lost you, Anna. That day, when you froze, I thought I'd never see you again, and that it was my fault. And even after you came back, after I felt comfortable with my powers, and when you told me over and over again that our people accepted me—I found it hard to accept myself.'

Elsa went on. 'Some nights, I didn't sleep. I kept going over everything, over and over again, replaying things in my head. Like whether I made the right decision to cut out Weaseltown and the Southern Isles. Like whether I could have stopped the whole mess to begin with. I could have calmed myself and spoken to you that night rather than blowing up and running away. Then no—no freezing the kingdom, no freezing you, none of that. I could have—'

'Elsa!' Anna cocked her head, knocking it against her sister's, drawing an _ow! _'That was my fault, okay? I got engaged to someone _two hours _after meeting him. I thought his last name was '_of the Southern Isles!' _And he turned out to be a scheming good-for-nothing creep that would have gotten away with it if it weren't for you. Don't go blaming yourself for my mess.'

Elsa bit her lip, sending a glaring flush of red up her cheeks that clashed with the pallor of her skin. A pang of sadness went up Anna's own heart, and she knew that it showed on her own face.

Elsa took a deep breath. With her eyes so sad and her platinum blond hair scattering over her face, Anna suddenly thought that she had rarely seen her sister look so lost.

'There's one thing—I have always been afraid of. Being alone, especially being alone with my thoughts. I've always been able to keep it in, conceal my thoughts, not feeling them. But now that I've let it go—' Elsa choked up with a sob.

Elsa continued haltingly. Hesitantly. 'When I'm alone, the thoughts start again. And I'm afraid to let them run in my head. Because I will always remember something I'll never, ever be able to fix.'

Unconsciously, her hand curled up and found Anna's—it squeezed around her fingers like a vise. The little squeeze spoke volumes. _I'm here, Elsa. And I'll always be here._

Anna felt the rise and fall of her sister's chest, the deep breath that always came before Elsa said something she had never spoken of before.

'It's my fault.'

Anna froze. _What?_

'That day—when Mama and Papa were…gone,' Elsa struggled with the words, 'if I had stopped them from leaving, if I had been on that ship, if somehow I had convinced them to take me along, if I had even _somehow _caught up to them, left the palace, went across the sea—'

'Elsa!' Anna cried out again, this time far more desperately. 'Elsa, don't you ever, _ever _think that!'

She cradled her sister's delicate face in her hands, struggling to offer every bit of warmth she could to stave off the darkness of her thoughts.

'_I could have saved them!_' Elsa was sobbing for real now, pearly tears running freely down her cheeks. '_I could have frozen the sea, stopped their ship from sinking! I could have s-s-saved—'_

'Elsa! No!—_don't you ever!_' Anna shook her sister by her shoulders. 'Elsa! Stop blaming yourself for that!'

Her protests bounced off as Elsa broke down completely. '_They are dead because of me!_'

She cupped her mouth with her cold fingers, frost forming freely over her pale flesh, tears bubbling from her eyes like cold water from a mountain brook. Instinctively, Anna closed her arms around the slender form of her older sister, ignoring the coldness of her dress and her skin. Held her, held her tight, even as the tremors of Elsa's weeping shook her fragile form like a leaf in the wind.

Anna had guessed that a lot had been on Elsa's mind. The challenges of running the kingdom piled on, one on top of the other, upon the attention of her older sister. But never had she guessed that Elsa had been consumed with such horrible _guilt_. That she feared being alone, yet spent so much of her life alone.

Anna couldn't pretend that her admiration for Elsa didn't sometimes cross over into envy—and resentment. Yet Anna could only, if at all, resent the image of the Snow Queen—that unapproachable symbol, distant and abstract.

She couldn't feel anything but love for the sister that now clutched at her, her body shaking with sobs, pushing deeper into her embrace. And she knew how terrible it was to blame yourself for hurting someone you care about.

_You've been strong for so long._

Anna gripped Elsa's hand tightly, squeezing it, hoping that somehow she could pass on every bit of warmth in her own body into the aching, broken heart of her sister.

_Let it go_ was hard advice, Anna thought. It wasn't just about being strong and free. As she looked down at the sobbing form of her sister the powerful Snow Queen of Arendelle, curled up like a kitten in its mother's bosom, she thought that sometimes it was also about allowing yourself to be weak. To stop being strong, just for a little bit, and let go of what's inside.

Anna's own eyes ran with tears.

* * *

The minutes went by. _Tick, tock. Tick tock. _Neither sister moved, each clutching the other tightly like nothing else mattered. Tasks remained to be done. One sister had a kingdom to run and a crisis to control. The other had wounds, both bodily and emotional, to heal through rest and recuperation.

Yet for this one moment, in the penumbra of a quiet winter night, Anna and Elsa had all the time in the world.

Then the moon came out from behind a cloud.

Through the window, clear and brilliant, the beams of moonlight fell into the wide room, lighting up both girls curled up on the couch. Sparkling overhead, setting even the air alight. And riding on the moonbeams, the scent of memory wafted and swirled in the air.

_This room. _Anna remembered. Somehow, in some forgotten part of her brain, some part of her had caught hold of a memory, like a strand of gold, and had clung to it for dear life.

_With Elsa. With you. _She looked at her sister, who was no longer shaking. The crying had stopped—she now lay limply, breathing heavily.

Anna gently stroked Elsa's hair, brushing away the stray strands.

And almost before she realised it, and before she could stop herself, she began singing. Singing words she remembered only vaguely, but words which rolled off her tongue as easily as if she had known them all her life.

'_Do you…wanna build…a snowman?'_

Elsa gasped. Her eyes flew open, and for a moment she lay there, not able to believe her ears.

'_If only for today…'_

The moonlight lit up the floor, tracing the intricate patterns of the mosaic tiles with silver light. The very same place where, so many years ago, two sisters had stolen away at the crack of dawn to share a moment of magic and wonder, amidst soft snow and swirling snowflakes. And in the quiet of the night, Anna's voice rang clearly like the chiming of a bell.

'_All those years of staying strong…'_

'_For far too long…'_

'_We've forgotten how to play…'_

Tears rolled down Elsa's cheeks again, as every syllable drew another mark on her heart. Marking the years that she had spent putting up barriers that they had only begun to dismantle.

Anna sang again, stroking Elsa's cheeks, as a light flurry of snow began to descend upon the room.

'_Let's reclaim the joy we shared once…'_

'_Just you and me…'_

'_And start over anew…'_

And as the moon broke through, full and bright, unobscured by the veil of the clouds, Anna's tearful features were broken through by a simple, heartfelt smile, glowing with the innocence of childhood reclaimed, if only for a moment.

'_Do you wanna build a snowman?' _She all but whispered.

And then Elsa was sitting up, next to her, her hands clasped around her sister's. Her eyes, glowing brilliant blue like diamonds in the moonlight, were still wet with tears. But her smile had burst through at last, like a ray of sunlight through the oppressive cover of storm clouds.

Her voice choked with emotion, Elsa finished the last verse of the song. The one stanza left hanging, the two words she never said to Anna as she lay outside her bedroom door, the day when their world collapsed with the news of their parents' demise. The words she always regretted leaving unsaid.

'_I do._'

And in the embrace that followed, and amidst the warmth that radiated from their bodies even in the falling snow and frigid moonlight, both sisters could have sworn that their hearts were beating in sync.

Anna held on for a moment more, pressing her arms around Elsa, a blissful expression lighting up her face as her eyes closed.

'Well?' Elsa spoke first.

'Hmm?' Anna's eyes flew open.

'Are we gonna keep hugging, or can we play?'

'Yes! Yes we can!' Anna yelped, jumping up and down with her sister still in her embrace—Elsa made choking noises playfully as her weight bounced uncomfortably on Anna's arms. 'Play, I mean.' Anna added hastily. 'I mean, hugging is good, but playing is gooder. Not gooder, I mean. I mean, _more _good…'

Anna's rambling was cut off by a snowball to the face.

'Ellshheerrr!' The princess muffled indignantly, pawing at the layer of soft fluffy snow on her face.

'Score one!' Elsa laughed, as another snowball began forming in her hands.

This time, Anna was ready. She dodged as the soft projectile flew past her face, spraying a thin coating of snow over her braids. 'No fair! No powers allowed!'

'I'm the queen! I make the rules!' Elsa giggled, spraying a shower of snow from her hands, as snowflakes began to fall more densely, whirling and spiraling in the glow of a full moon.

'Ha!' Anna's own snowball connected with Elsa's torso, drawing an _oomph! _of surprise.

'No powers needed!' Whooping with glee, Anna punched the air, just in time to catch a double whammy of snowballs to the stomach.

Screeching with mock anger and genuine joy, both girls pelted each other with snowballs and flung soft showers of snow at each other, frolicking and clambering about the gathering cushion of snow in the chamber.

Each projectile was a weapon, made with warmth and love to be hurled against the solid wall of cold isolation that had long divided both sisters.

Each laugh and yelp of glee was a roar of defiance against the fear and self-doubt in their hearts.

Each hit from a snowball chipped away at the sadness that had clung persistently at the edges of their minds.

Long after the skirmish had ceased, the two girls lay in the soft blanket of snow sweeping their arms, carving out little angel patterns, laughing all the while.

And later still, they lay still in companionship, gazing up, talking little, yet understanding much. Watching Elsa's snowflakes whirl and skim through the air, trailing patterns and spirals across the ceiling.

Here, amidst the sweet memory of childhood reclaimed, Anna began to heal.

Here, amidst the element that had come to define the Snow Queen, Elsa began to thaw.

* * *

Kai opened the door slowly, at a quarter to midnight.

The royal servant of the queen sighed. The entire room was plastered with a layer of snow, including the furniture and the floor. Even the walls were streaked with white, and here and there small irregular mounds of snow peeped out in between the furniture.

Kai looked at the couch parked beside all the snowy carnage, and he sighed a second time—this time with a quiet appreciation and a warm glow in his heart.

The queen and the princess were curled up on the couch, a blanket drawn tightly over their bodies. Queen Elsa's icy cape peeked out from under the soft wooly fabric. She almost certainly did not need the warmth—the blanket had been for her sister's comfort.

Elsa squirmed a little bit, her eyes still closed in sleep. Instantly, and yet almost unconsciously, Anna's arms tightened around her sister, and the blanket sunk inwards into the hollow of their bodies. And subtly but perceptibly, the smiles of both girls' faces deepened.

Watching the innocent and almost cherubic scene, Kai beamed.

_Good night, Your Majesties. Sleep well._

He closed the door.

_Gerda isn't going to like cleaning up, though._

* * *

Kai was on his way back to the servant's quarters when a door opened to his right. A harried and clearly exhausted figure exited, clutching a heavy and bulging briefcase in one hand and about three or four folders in the other.

'Good evening, Dr. Olsen. Late night?' Kai greeted, in a low voice so as not to startle him.

The doctor turned around, smiling faintly, the dark marks around his eyes even more prominent in the moonlight from the nearby window.

'Good evening, _Herr _Kai. Very late. Was completing my case write-ups.'

'On the princess?' Kai asked casually.

'Yes, the princess. Her injuries are superficial, but she would really benefit from a great deal of rest from the next few days, or so I told Her Majesty.' Dr. Olsen shifted the stack of folders under his arm to a more stable position. 'I would certainly not recommend any strenuous activity for the next day or so, and certainly none that would cause undue excitement of any sort.'

Kai thought back to the snowy disaster zone in the chamber where two sisters rested in exhaustion. _Well, too late for that now I suppose._

'But the majority of my work has been on the prisoner. And quite frankly it has been cause for worry.'

'The prisoner? What about?'

Kai had intended his remark to be nothing more than a casual follow-up in a passing conversation between two—_very tired_—men who were soon to be heading to a much-needed rest. But when Dr. Olsen sighed and bent over to rest his briefcase upon the floor, Kai knew that he was about to be here for some time.

_Alright, I might as well listen._

'His injuries were caused by a weapon unlike any I know of. The projectile that had torn through his body had been driven by a force far beyond that of any arrow or crossbow bolt—if I had to estimate, I would say that it was launched from a _ballista._ A horrible wound. Like a tunnel, carved out by a tumbling metal ball.' Dr. Olsen's face was grim. 'The surgery almost defeated me.'

Kai placated the doctor with a kindly smile. 'You're the best doctor in Arendelle. In all the Nordic lands, if I may say so.'

Dr. Olsen shook his head wearily. 'The metal projectile had torn through the kidney with such force as to render the entire organ useless. It cut through bowel and blood vessels as if they were paper, and almost shattered the spine. I could do little but remove the projectile, stitch up the wound, and commit the patient to fate. I am told that the assassins which were responsible for today's incident all carried such strange weapons. And that a large number of them are still at large.'

Kai began to see the doctor's cause for worry. 'So the wounds caused by these weapons would be almost invariably fatal.'

Dr. Olsen nodded. 'It was a fact I withheld from Her Majesty at the time.'

'Given the princess' ordeal,' he elaborated, 'I did not see fit to trouble Her Majesty with the knowledge that any of the numerous shots that missed the princess, had they hit, would have condemned her to a painful and inevitable death. One far beyond my art, or the means of any modern physic.'

The aged doctor cast his eyes downward.

Kai's heart ached. 'You did what you had to, Dr. Olsen. Thank you for your discretion.'

Yet despite Kai's sleep-deprived state, his brain was clicking into action. Something was not adding up.

'Dr. Olsen. You told me that the wound from this strange weapon was fatal. That survival is impossible.'

'Yes.' The doctor nodded.

'So—' Kai's mind began to grapple with the impossible.

'So how is the prisoner still alive?' He asked.

The doctor now set down the stack of files beside his briefcase. And now, the older man looked Kai straight in the eyes, with an expression that spoke of both worry and uncertainty.

'When I was conducting the surgery,' Dr. Olsen began, 'I saw something I've never seen before. Something I'm still struggling to make sense of.'

The doctor took a breath before continuing, and Kai almost heard the wordless subtext of _this is going to sound crazy, but…_

'As I cut through the patient's flesh, something else grew rapidly inside the wound. A thick meshwork of reddish threads, hard and spiky like crystals. Like the work of a thousand invisible spiders, spinning and weaving webs across every inch of the patient's insides.'

Dr. Olsen nervously drummed his fingers against the side of his trousers. 'I had to cut through this—this _web—_to get to the metal ball inside—yet the more I cut, the more it grew. Like it was—_reacting —_to my intrusion, proliferating in response to an enemy.'

Kai stared blankly. _What's going on here?_

'I got ready to suture the wound afterward.' Dr. Olsen continued. 'But there was almost no need. By that time, the entirety of the wound had been filled by the meshwork, and I could actually see the wound being _drawn _closed as if the strings of a purse were being tightened. I sewed it up only at the outermost skin. And I could not understand what I saw. An injury inflicted barely an hour ago now left a scar that looked several weeks old.'

The doctor shook his head in bewilderment. 'I have never seen anything like this. If for nothing but academic curiosity, I would have liked to see more of this patient before he went to the dungeons. His death sentences are manifold: kidney failure, blood poisoning, shock, infection. He is almost certainly dead by now.'

'Dr. Olsen,' Kai spoke slowly and deliberately, 'the guards informed me that the Queen spoke to this prisoner just this evening.'

Dr. Olsen's eyes widened in shock. 'That is impossible.'

'Are you telling me that—' Kai began.

'He should not be alive, let alone conscious or active!' The doctor's frustration and bewilderment burst forth, before he regained his composure. 'My apologies, _Herr _Kai. But this man—this prisoner—is in defiance of everything I know and everything I have seen in my forty years in the medical profession.'

The doctor sighed before picking up his briefcase and folders. 'It is late, _Herr _Kai. I apologise for keeping you for so long and troubling you with this information.'

'No matter. Thank you for informing me of this. I can see your worry is justified.' Kai waved away the apology, as worry gathered in the pit of his stomach. _Whom have we brought into this place?_

Kai cleared his head. There were far more important things to attend to than mere academic curiosity. The captain would have to be notified, to ensure that the assassins did not get a second chance to strike. The queen would have to be counselled and briefed for the coming meetings. The diplomats would have to be dealt with, to ensure that the shocking events of the day did not create irreparable ramifications for Arendelle's future.

'The queen will be away tomorrow with the Council. I will liaise with Captain Frederik on her behalf. In addition to tightening security over the festival, and dealing with the diplomats howling for our blood, we will do our best to find out just _who _the prisoner is.' Kai spoke, the finality in his voice closing the conversation for good.

The doctor nodded, as he trudged wearily in the direction of his private quarters. 'If you do succeed, you would be far ahead of this old doctor.'

Dr. Olsen turned around, and their eyes met.

'Because quite frankly, _Herr _Kai, I am not sure _what _he is.'

* * *

Arendelle's stables were cold, even in daytime. At night time, the stables became ice freezers. For most men, being there for longer than ten minutes was considered insane and unthinkable.

Kristoff Bjorgman was not most men.

The burly mountain man lay back against a bale of hay, resting his aching muscles, as the flickering light of a lamp cast dancing shadows against the stable walls.

Next to him, Sven swallowed the last bits of a carrot, before nosing about a nearly-empty sack for the next one. The sack had been full barely half an hour ago.

'_What's on your mind, Kristoff?_' Sven asked. Or rather, Sven chewed and mimed mouth motions in Kristoff's direction, whilst the mountain man provided the 'voice'—a deeper, more comical voice than his usual speaking tone.

'Well, I don't know, Sven,' Kristoff sighed, speaking as himself. 'Just thinking about stuff. About Anna and Elsa. They're probably having some—' he threw himself back on the hay '_sister bonding time_ right now, while I'm out here all by myself.'

'_You could go inside, you know. It's waaaarm in there.' _Sven mouthed.

'I know. But you can't. Might as well have some company out here.' Kristoff stroked Sven's snout, and the reindeer in turn rubbed into his hand.

If he could have his way, he would have stood vigil outside Anna's room all through the next week or month or year, doing his business in a bucket and eating out of a sack like Sven. He would have done anything to make sure that she was safe and always safe.

Instead, the princess had firmly requested that he get some rest of his own (_'You look __**horrible, **__Kristoff! Get some rest!'_) in one of the palace's many bedrooms. He had opted to come down to the stables instead, which was why he was now huddled in a pile of hay at a quarter to midnight, doing ventriloquist routines with a reindeer who looked just as sleepy.

There was a knock on the stable door.

'Who could be here at this hour of the night?' Kristoff muttered.

'_Probably the guards, kicking you out for trespassing._' Sven mumbled through Kristoff's voice.

'Shut up, Sven.' The mountain man rolled his eyes as he arose and strode to the door. The reindeer looked both surprised and offended—_Kristoff you're doing all the talking—_

The stable door swung open to reveal a strange gathering of travelers. A magnificent stallion, white as the snow falling outside, a snowman, and a little green chameleon resting in the twig palm of the snowman.

Kristoff looked on, mouth open. For a second, nobody—_nothing—_spoke.

Then Olaf waved. 'Hi, Kristoff!' The snowman chirped. 'You look like you've been punched.'

Kristoff wriggled his nose, unamused.

'Can we come in?'

'Uh, yeah. Come on in.'

The horse trotted, the snowman shuffled, and the chameleon—_however chameleons move—_into the shelter of the stable. Three new shadows joined that of Sven and Kristoff on the stable walls, and the reindeer sniffed a little bit as it took in the presence of the newcomers.

'Oh yeah, almost forgot.' Olaf waved his hands. 'Hi Sven, Hi Kristoff. Meet Maximus and Pascal, my new friends here in Arendelle.'

The horse stamped and rose up erect, snout in the air, exuding a commanding presence. The chameleon rolled its eyes at the horse, then gave a smile and a little wave of its own.

Kristoff remembered to close his mouth. _I guess I gave up on 'normal' a long, long, long time ago._

The chameleon chirped suddenly, making little hand—_claw? —_gestures at Olaf, who jumped a little. 'Oh yeah, Pascal here has something to say.'

The chameleon stood up straight, balancing delicately on Olaf's twig finger, and put its palm to its face, turning its head left and right in an imitation of 'looking around.' Then an expression of excitement appeared on its face as it pointed straight, with mouth open and tongue hanging out.

'Pascal says that he and Maximus went out to look for anything strange.' Olaf translated. 'And they found something.'

The chameleon mimed the theatrical trot of a thief, and then made a little triangle with his tiny claws.

'They saw some shady people down at the corner building down the street from the town square.' Olaf continued.

The horse suddenly whinnied, and jerked its snout in the chameleon's direction. Chirping back angrily, the chameleon rolled its eyes, sighed, and then made some small movements with its claws, all but undecipherable to everyone except Olaf.

'Oh, and Maximus says they were dressed like palace guards, but he's sure that they aren't. Nobody spotted them both because Maximus is _really _good at hiding.'

The horse raised an eyebrow and craned its head even higher. The chameleon slapped a palm to its face and turned a violent shade of yellow.

'Oh, and Pascal too.' Olaf continued. 'Did I mention he can change colour? Very useful for hiding.'

As if to illustrate the point, Pascal looked straight at Kristoff, smirking, and then flashed a dazzling sequence of reds and blues in quick succession. Now it was the horse's turn to roll its eyes.

_This is __**definitely **__not in nature's laws. _Kristoff thought wildly, as the bizarre scene unfolded before him.

'So, wait up.' Kristoff stalled them with an outstretched palm. 'Strange men, as in _those that attacked Anna_? Did they have any funny weapons, or look a little, well, _not from here_?'

The horse raised a hoof, its expression sullen, and pointed straight at Kristoff. Then it drew the hoof right across its chin.

'Maximus said they were dressed like people from around here, like you.' Olaf continued. 'But he's sure they're not _good _people.'

'Translating is hard.' The snowman sighed. 'Anyways, last they checked, nobody's gone in or out of that building.'

'So where were _you_?' Kristoff asked.

'I…well I was trying to put myself together.' The snowman laughed nervously. 'Someone kicked me over this afternoon and I had to go look for bits of me. People seem to be in an awful hurry today.'

'Yeah. Me included.' Kristoff rose abruptly, and began putting on his boots. Sven grunted questioningly and rose to his feet as well, still munching on the last carrot. 'Sven, you stay. This won't take long.'

'Wait, wait, where're you going?' Olaf asked.

Kristoff jammed his wool cap on and quickly strapped his satchel of supplies to his back.

'I'm going to take care of something,' he answered, putting on his gloves. 'You guys stay here. Anna's probably asleep, but if she wakes up and asks, tell her I'll be back by sunup.'

The horse suddenly jammed its snout into Kristoff's face, and from the corner of his eye, he spotted the chameleon shaking a fist at him. 'Hey! What's the big idea?'

The snowman glared, hands on his hips (or its equivalent anatomical position on a snowball.) 'Hey! No going after those men down in the town. It's too dangerous. And Anna needs you here!'

Kristoff snatched his cap back from the horse, which had bitten it off his head. 'Who said anything about going after them? I'm not going after them.'

The horse and chameleon both stopped, looking blankly at Kristoff.

The mountain man sighed as he replaced the cap atop his head. 'I'm going up the North Mountain to see Grand Pabbie, tell him what's going on. He'll know what to do.'

The horse and chameleon were still frozen in place, their doubtful expressions unchanged.

'He's talking about some friends up the mountain. They're really smart and give good advice.' The snowman whispered to the two companions, loud enough to defeat the purpose of the whisper.

The horse and chameleon finally relaxed, with an audible '_oohhh_' from the horse and a '_cheeeep_' from the chameleon.

'So don't worry, okay? I'm not that smart, but I'm not stupid either.' Kristoff held out his hands, placating his listeners smoothly. 'I'm just going to see Grand Pabbie, ask for his advice, then come back down here and tell Anna and Elsa what I know. That's it. No heroics, nothing.'

'Oh, okay.' Olaf grinned blankly. 'I think you're pretty heroic, by the way.'

Kristoff groaned as he strapped the gear to his belt. 'I'm probably not as smart as Anna or Elsa, or any of the palace people. I'm probably not even as smart as your friends here.'

He pulled the scarf over the lower half of his face, ignoring the awkward looks from the horse and chameleon, before sliding the stable door open.

'But if there's something I can do to help, I'll do it.'

* * *

***Flips table* I spent more time working on the reprise of 'Do You Wanna Build a Snowman' than I did on the rest of the chapter. Apologies...songwriting ain't my forte...and neither is fluff or angst, some areas of writing that I still need to work on.****  
**

**I've also given Olaf a +3 to intelligence and perception for this chapter. I think based on the movie that despite his goofiness and comic relief, he's a lot more perceptive and intelligent than a lot of fanfic writers currently give him credit for. I mean he ain't Sherlock, but I think he's got a brain despite a lack of a skull or bones. Anyway, please let me know if it carried over alright in this chapter.**

**I'll be taking a short hiatus until the first week of June. I'll be taking my second year medical school exam in a couple of weeks, so I'll have to drop this for the time being in order to prepare for it, and avoid inviting dishonor upon my _family_, dishonor upon _me_, dishonor upon my _cow_, and so on and so forth.**

**Thank you for reading! If you have any questions, critiques, comments, praises or flames, again please drop a review. Till next time.**


	10. Chapter 10: The Oncoming Storm

**First up, many apologies for the _extremely _long hiatus up till this chapter. I've had quite a few things going on throughout this month, which took up a bit of time. The majority of the problem has been to collate the pieces of the different plot arcs into separate chapters. I promise, however, that updates will be coming in more frequently now that it's the summer holidays.**

**PS. I passed my second year of medical school. Thanks for all your wishes!**

**And here...we...go.**

* * *

_"There is no avoiding war; it can only be postponed to the advantage of others.'_

_-Niccolo Machiavelli, The Prince (1513)_

* * *

**Chapter 10: The Oncoming Storm**

* * *

**The North Mountain**

**At a time far too early for anyone to be out in this weather**

Kristoff stopped under a rocky overhang to catch his breath. The wind, biting cold once he started out on his journey, was now just a constant irritation, like an insect bite. He considered removing his headgear to clear his eyes, but decided against it. Snow blindness wasn't worth it.

_No accidents, no wolves, made it in two hours. Not bad._

The North Mountain was a dangerous place—marauding packs of wolves, crevasses hidden by deceptive blankets of snow, and the ever-present risk of an avalanche. Most people, Anna included, would think that Kristoff would be far safer with Sven and the safety of his sled.

In reality, Kristoff felt _safer _traveling on foot. Much of the danger in his line of work came from the difficulty of moving a heavy, ice-laden wooden sled across slippery, snowy ground, and the weight—and noise—made both Sven and himself obvious targets for wolves.

To someone who knew the mountain as well as he did, however—and someone who had traversed it on foot almost as much as he had travelled it by sled, traveling on foot wasn't so dangerous. At least, it was the kind of _acceptable _dangerous—like a fisherman going out to sea. Sure the sea is dangerous, but most of the time you can handle it. _Most _of the time.

He had taken a route that took him well clear of any wolf hunting grounds, sheer drops, almost-ready-to-fall dead trees, and ice cliffs. Easy enough—he was only slightly out of breath, and that was only because the last part of the journey was a thirty-foot climb up a rocky cliff face.

Ahead, Kristoff could see the steady spout of steam wafting up from behind a massive rocky formation, hiding the little hollow that some called The Valley of Living Rock.

_I'm almost home_. His heart gave a little jump of joy. If only he was visiting with better news.

* * *

"_Kristoff's home!"_

In just a minute, the mountain man was buried under the world's noisiest, warmest, cuddliest avalanche.

"Have you lost weight?" Bulda gasped from somewhere close to his stomach. His adoptive mother pinched him in the side.

"Ouch! No, I...I've just got new clothes." Kristoff rubbed his side.

"Where's that nice girl you brought back the last time?" Cliff asked from somewhere on Kristoff's back.

"She's—yeah, actually, about her—"

"I passed another kidney stone." A grumpy troll murmured from under his legs, clearly bored with the whole thing.

"_Guys!_" Kristoff cried out at last. "I need to see Grand Pabbie, it's important! Anna and Elsa are in danger!"

As one, the trolls blinked. Then blinked again.

Then suddenly, rocks were rolling everywhere on their own, like a crazy billiards game, all calling out for their wise and old, old, old leader.

"Grand Pabbie! _Grand Pabbie!_"

"Kristoff's here! He needs you, it's important!"

"That _girl_ of his is in danger!"

Then a hush fell over the trolls. The mass of rock parted, as a single figure moved forward.

Though barely the size of a small boulder, the troll they called Grand Pabbie radiated wisdom and authority. His skin was craggy and mossy, like the face of a rock weathered by years and years of wind and rain. His face was both kind and serious. A necklace of yellow crystals jingled loosely on his body.

"Kristoff." His voice was deep, kind and thoughtful all at once. "It's good to see you."

"Grand Pabbie, I need your help." Kristoff got down to business. "It's Anna and Elsa. They're in danger. This afternoon, they were attacked during the festival!"

"Attacked?" Grand Pabbie repeated, his eyes widening. A ripple of surprise and shock spread through the gathering of trolls. Grand Pabbie raised a finger—the noise died down almost immediately.

Kristoff nodded grimly. "A band of assassins tried to kill Anna while she was out to get chocolates. She barely made it back to the palace. Elsa fought off the rest of them."

The ancient troll was silent. His stony brows narrowed in sadness, it took some time before he spoke.

"Elsa and Anna have been through so much—almost too much to bear, for ones so young."

Bulda and Cliff held hands, their expressions equally grim. Though having met Anna only once, someone close to Kristoff was part of the extended family. And when one member suffered, the whole family suffers too.

"Fear..." Grand Pabbie continued somberly. "Fear is always the enemy. Those who fear Elsa now seek to hurt her, and they would hurt Anna to get to her. Of all the forces that drive people to evil, none are as great as fear."

"Grand Pabbie, Elsa managed to catch one of the assassins following Anna. He's being held in Arendelle right now. She talked to him earlier; he says that he was trying to save Anna." Kristoff met Grand Pabbie's eyes. "I don't believe it." He had to add.

"Stranger things have been heard of." Grand Pabbie mused. "What seems to be an obvious lie may sometimes turn out to be outrageous truth."

"Which is why I need your help, Grand Pabbie. The rest of his—_friends—_are still holed up in Arendelle. Olaf managed to find out where they're hiding. Can you come and—do something about them?"

A pregnant silence hung in the air. Then, slowly, Grand Pabbie shook his head.

"I wish I could, Kristoff. There would be so much we could do, if we trolls were free to mingle with humankind as we wish." The aged troll smiled sadly. "But there are boundaries set long before either race existed, boundaries that not even I may cross."

"We are bound to this place, Kristoff. We are the Valley's guardians, and we are to remain here to safeguard the source of its magic." Grand Pabbie raised his arms, reaching towards the high rocky walls that bordered their home. "And for that same reason, Kristoff..."

The troll sighed. "...I cannot leave."

"But, but—" Kristoff began, his heart sinking, but then bit his lip. He hung his head.

Grand Pabbie _had _told him something like this before, when he was littler and simpler. He just always thought that the trolls _wouldn't _leave their home. It just never occurred to him that they _couldn't_.

"But perhaps I can help in other ways." Grand Pabbie spoke again, and Kristoff immediately paid attention.

The old troll put his fingers together, and a soft yellow light emanated from his palms. On his vest, a few scattered crystals began glowing. The gathering of trolls gasped at this display of power.

"I have the gift of earth and memory. Through touch, I may see the memories of the past—as far back as the stains of time permit. Perhaps a month, a year, maybe more." Grand Pabbie softly wove the light in his hands, which slowly took the shape of a web.

"If you have something belonging to the prisoner—a piece of clothing, a glove, a weapon—if I can touch it, I may be able to see into his past."

Kristoff stammered. "Into—his past?"

"His memories, to be exact." Grand Pabbie murmured. "And I may find something in his thoughts. Something that you may find useful to help protect Arendelle."

Kristoff pulled off his rucksack. He rummaged quickly through it. He bumped into mountaineering tools and a coil of rope. Nothing in there. _Why would anything of the prisoner's be in there? _ The last time he opened the bag was when he was in the palace, washing up. What was he supposed to grab, soap? Did the stinky assassin take a shower right before they hauled him to the dungeon.

_Oh, come on now, Kristoff. _He kicked himself. _Your Grand Pabbie can do memory magic, and of all the times to be unprepared, you don't have something belonging to the prisoner in your bag?_

_Wait._

His fingers bumped into something leathery. He pulled it out.

It was a glove. The _prisoner's _glove. Thick and heavy with straps, and with little pockets along the forearm, most probably to store small weapons or _something._

_Why would I have it here?_ Kristoff racked his head.

And then he remembered. He remembered flinging his rucksack carelessly at the door of the doctor's office in his hurry to get to Anna. He remembered that the prisoner had been brought to the doctor before he was thrown into the dungeon. And he knew that before the doctor could operate, he had to strip the prisoner bare. Take off everything he was wearing—including the gloves.

_His glove must have gotten mixed up with my equipment._

He examined the thing.

It was long, reaching up to the elbow most probably. And it smelled. Smelled of something weird—something _burning._

"Grand Pabbie," Kristoff said slowly, holding the glove aloft, "here."

The troll reached forth, the web of yellow, glowing magic spreading from his fingers. Gently, he took the glove in his hand, and the web coalesced. The threads closed in, the diffuse light focused into an orb between his palms, and the leather glove glowed as bright as starlight.

No one spoke. All eyes were focused on the ancient troll working the most ancient of magic.

Grand Pabbie's eyes were closed. His brows twitched and jerked, his lips drawing tight. His body trembled as the flow of memories filled every part of his mind.

And then suddenly, Grand Pabbie screamed.

Instantly, the glove was flung from him, landing several feet away. At the same time, the old troll began toppling backwards.

"_Grand Pabbie!_"

Kristoff rushed forward, but the other trolls were quicker. A little boulder pile of sorts had formed behind the old troll, gently supporting him and stopping his fall. Slowly, he came to, his eyes fluttering open.

"Grand Pabbie, your hands..." Kristoff whispered.

The little, stony palms of the ancient troll were stained black. And there was a smell in the air. The smell of burning.

It took a minute or two for the old troll to regain his balance and stand on his own feet, albeit unsteadily.

When Grand Pabbie finally spoke, Kristoff felt a chill. For the first time, Grand Pabbie's voice sounded..._weak_.

"That prisoner—he is not all he seems."

"I knew it." Kristoff grimaced.

"He tells the truth, Kristoff. He indeed tried to save your beloved. He tried to save Anna." Grand Pabbie spoke breathlessly. "I can sense it in his thoughts."

The mountain man blinked, clearly surprised.

"But...something is wrong. I could see maybe for two, three years back—but I see gaps. They are unclear. Misty. This man—his memory, his mind, _it has been tampered with._"

"You mean—memory magic?" Cliff piped in nervously from somewhere behind Grand Pabbie.

"Yes—and no. My art is in preservation. But whatever did this to his mind—it was to destroy. Like ripping pieces out of a tapestry. Careless, damaging, painful. Who—whatever did this, did so to remove information. Almost as if they wanted to prevent what I'm trying to do now."

"Can you fix it?" Kristoff asked.

Grand Pabbie shook his head. "Whatever did this was powerful. More powerful than even me."

"What—what could be more powerful than you?" Bulda asked nervously.

Grand Pabbie bowed his head. "Considering the depth of the damage, and its intention—I dread to think of the answer to that question."

"And something else," Grand Pabbie's eyes met Kristoff's. "Something worse. Something much worse found its way into this man's body a long, long time ago. Something that grows even now."

He looked at his own hands, the burn marks still visible, although the healing magic in his body had already begun to do its work. "I could feel it just now. Sense its stench. Smell its hunger."

Almost unconsciously, Grand Pabbie's stubby fingers closed around one crystal on his vest.

"Something great. Something terrible. And something that I had wished I would never have to face."

"Grand Pabbie..." Kristoff stepped forward uncertainly.

"You must return to Arendelle quickly. Warn Elsa." Grand Pabbie's voice was now authoritative and firm once more. "Tell her that under no circumstances should she allow this prisoner to come near her in any way. She must not speak to him. And most of all, she must never, never allow him to touch her."

Kristoff nodded vigorously. _I won't argue with that. At all._

"And Kristoff—" Grand Pabbie added. "I must meet with Elsa. It is extremely urgent."

The mountaineer froze.

_Elsa's never come to see the trolls before—well, except for that day when she was eight. _Kristoff scratched his head uncertainly. _Will she want to meet them again? Like this?_

"I'll do what I can, Grand Pabbie." He answered finally.

"Go, Kristoff. And warn them." The old troll shook a finger. "Arendelle is in graver danger than they can imagine. Time is of the essence."

With a curt nod, Kristoff shouldered his rucksack and turned away from the trolls. He gave one final wave to Bulda and Cliff at the threshold of the valley. The gathering of trolls watched silently as their adoptive clansman trudged steadily and surely down the byway until the falling snow covered his silhouette.

It was a while until the trolls began talking again, and only in low, muted tones. Bulda and Cliff still remained, staring at the spot where they had last seen Kristoff.

"He just came home, too..." Bulda whispered wistfully.

"That boy of yours is always in such a hurry." Cliff pouted.

* * *

Grand Pabbie retreated from the crowd, away from the noise, further into the inner sanctum of the valley. His footsteps were shaky, his breathing still shallow.

His mind felt like it had been violated. Attacked. Lingering memories, now nothing more than confused shapes and noises, still clung to the edges of his mind like muck. But the fear that gripped his heart was now all too clear.

_Has it come now? At long last, after all these years?_

Grand Pabbie now stood in a little clearing, surrounded by tall fences of woven moss and fence stood tall like a monolith of green, and hanging on them were dozens and dozens of yellow crystals, suspended on flaxen strings. In the cool darkness of the early morning they glowed like fireflies.

_Then again, the past never truly stays in the past, now, does it?_

There were hundreds—thousands—of them, and Grand Pabbie knew exactly where each one was. Each contained the wealth and fullness of the memories, thoughts and emotions of several years. They were his collection, and he was both curator, custodian, and sole visitor of this library of thoughts. He had visited them all, lived them all in his mind. Lived the dreams and memories of hundreds and hundreds lives.

Except for one.

At the far end of the inner sanctum was a mound. By troll standards it was large, but then again they never really needed that much soil for their own tiny bodies. A mound of soil, surrounded by a cairn of rocks. Simple, nondescript. And hanging in a single, old, threaded necklace, was a small collection of half a dozen crystals. The others glowed bright yellow. But these ones glowed a fiery red.

Carved into the ground before the mound, in troll runes, were words Grand Pabbie had cut into the stone with his own hand. His handwriting was shaky, for it was that day so many hundreds of years ago that he made a promise to never open these memories—until now.

_Taking memories from minds, leaving gaps...you're no stranger to that, are you? _A darker part of Grand Pabbie hissed at him. Firmly, the aged troll called to mind benedictions and mantras of control and discipline, to silence the voice. But they faltered. It was none other than the attack of his own guilty conscience.

_Changing the memories of a little girl, what is that compared to changing the memories of a king?_ The voice continued to burrow deeper into Grand Pabbie's mind.

_Altering a childhood memory here and there is but child's play. A drop in the ocean, compared to ripping an entire lifetime from a living mind._

_And you've done that before, haven't you?_

He laid a hand on the mound wordlessly, and his heart he whispered to the one man that had been both friend and sworn enemy to the land of Arendelle.

_I'm sorry, my friend._

Shakily, gently, with dread and reverence, Grand Pabbie picked up the necklace of crystals. The wealth of a lifetime of memories. And in the crimson glow, the runes under his feet shone in stark relief:

_Here lie the Life, Memories, and Mortal Coil_

_of the **First King of Teine**_

_And the Scourge of the Nordic Lands_

_**Aodhfin of Dunbroch**_

* * *

**Inis Teine**

**Kalama Bay**

**The 'Dragon's Maw'—Teine Armory and Craftsmen's Guild**

_Necessity is the mother of invention; but more often than not, conflict is the mother of necessity._

Killian, fourth in the line of Teine's princes, still recalled the oft-quoted line, written in one of Teine's many books on the art of war—by far the greatest and most prolific of its literary genres. It was ingrained in his personal philosophy. It guided him to do what was necessary to ensure that the Teine empire's military always retained an edge over anything else the world could offer.

_Man created the shovel and plough to till the land. But when conflict arose with his fellow man, he discovered that the sharp edges of his tools worked as well on flesh as with soil. So man created the sword and spear, and he went to war._

_Fishing boats became warships. Hunting bows became longbows. Construction cranes became trebuchets. All through history, mankind had smelted ploughshares into swords._

Killian now oversaw the very embodiment of that philosophy. Under the roof of the empire's new military complex, hundreds of workers laboured under the strange and unnatural roar of newfangled machines. Machines that were designed some hundred years by Maurice of Auvernia, for very different purposes.

"Morning, Killian. You're up early."

Killian turned around, smiling. "Morning, Ken. We've got a quota to fill. Just making sure we'll meet it."

His twin grinned. Despite being born only a minute ahead of Killian, Kayneth could not have been more different. While they were more or less the same height, years of unforgiving service in the Highlander Corps had given Kayneth Canicus the toned, muscular build of a street brawler.

Killian on the other hand, while still sharing the leanness of the military physical regimen mandatory for all royal princes, was slimmer and fairer, having spent most of his time indoors in the factory complexes of Kalama. As Guardian of the Armory, he was almost single-handedly responsible for the production and maintenance of the weaponry of Teine's standing army.

Kayneth leaned casually on the balustrade, watching the work going on below. He could never get enough of watching those strange machines rumbling and working, on their own, without the strength of men or pack animals to drive them.

"These machines are really something else," he mused. "I thought that those newfangled weapons would be a pain to craft, but your machines have churned up crates and crates of them already. I think we'll produce in a week what it'll take the kingdom a month to make."

"You've got Maurice the Inventor to thank for that, Ken." Killian joined his brother by the balustrade.

"And to think that—what did you tell me?—that he made these machines for things like chopping wood and churning butter?"

Killian smiled, shaking his head. "Nobody saw his genius. Not even himself. Look here," he pointed at a nearby machine, its pistons pumping rhythmically.

"Copied directly from his designs. Counter flow engine, a complex pressure transmission system. Four chamber combustion, runs on coal. Casting mold, screw-cutting lathe, automated gauges. One complete musket—finished in ten minutes." Killian smiled, watching Kayneth's eyes widen. "One of these machines literally has the strength and production power of a hundred men."

Killian paused for dramatic effect.

"Maurice built it to make _cupcakes_."

Kayneth snorted. Then the snort burst out as a full, belly-aching laugh.

"Oh Killian, not everyone is as warlike as we are."

His brother smiled. "And that's why we'll win."

Killian continued his observation of the manufacturing lines. The delicate and complex motions made possible by Maurice's designs were now used to produce the new muskets and pistols that—Killian knew, and knew first before anybody—would come to change the face of warfare.

Yet he knew that the old man was reputed to be a staunch pacifist and practically harmless. Would Maurice have considered these new machines to be his brainchild? Or reject them as bastards?

He checked his pocket watch. _Nine sharp. _

He beckoned to Kayneth to follow him. With a grunt, his twin brother straightened his back and traipsed forward, still picking bits of breakfast out of his teeth.

On the walk to the docks, Killian reflected on how Teine craftsmanship had become irreversibly intertwined with Teine warfare. The outside world thought that the strength of the empire lay in numbers, and in their viciousness and barbarity. Killian had often enough seen the old mosaics depicting Teine soldiers as ferocious, wolf-like painted demons, killing and burning their way through the countryside.

The truth was much less dramatic. It was flexibility and invention, not blind brutality and bloodlust that gave the empire the upper hand. The first war with the Knights of Arendelle, some two hundred years ago, certainly proved that. Before news of the invasion had even fully spread through the Nordic region, the Teine invading force had already adapted quickly to the frozen landscape, using techniques borrowed from natives.

Soldiers replaced their light canvas uniforms with heavy, bulky winter clothing; snow-shoes and mountain boots took the place of infantry footwear. Horses and supply wagons were quickly discarded in favour of dog pack-drawn sleds, allowing the troops to move quickly across the tundra. Invention, innovation, and appropriation of foreign methods and technology had led to the string of victories that only stopped short of Arendelle itself.

Only arrogance and gross unpreparedness on the part of the general had led to the failure of the invasion. The ignorance and overconfidence of their general (whose name had been wiped from history, as per the custom) had led to the demise of over five thousand troops at Helheim Fjord. The general had only been spared from the punishment of death on account of drowning in the same fjord he failed to capture.

Teine had secured vast swaths of territory, but not Arendelle itself. It was simply negligence and carelessness—rather than tactical inferiority—that prevented Teine from avenging its centuries-old blood-price against Arendelle. It was nothing more than luck and capricious fortune that had spared Arendelle from the flames of war. As the saying went, lightning did not strike the same way twice.

Killain didn't think of himself as warlike, and for good reason. He was a prince, and a prince had responsibilities. The age of conquest and glorious battles was over. Peace meant trade, trade meant wealth, wealth meant stability, stability brought control. A peaceful Arendelle was valuable. An Arendelle aligned to their interests—even more so.

Still, one more phrase popped up in his mind. An ancient one this time, oft repeated by the Latin conquerors of millenia past. A maxim that had guided the Latinum Empire to stand for more than a thousand years and hold an entire continent in its grasp. A philosophy that considered brute force and diplomacy not as opposites, but inseparable twins—the sword and the shield, means to a common end.

**_Si vis pacem, para bellum._**

_If you want peace, prepare for war._

He whimsically sent a thought to the Snow Queen across the northern seas. _In peace, you will find that we are amenable and generous. So do your best to stay at peace with us._

He looked down one more time at the train of muskets, pistols, and ammunition running off the assembly lines.

_For in war, we will strike without mercy._

Killian checked his watch again. _Nine-oh-one. _He swore. He hated being off-schedule.

* * *

**Arendelle Palace**

**The Private Chambers of the Queen**

_Knock knock._ Courteous, but firm.

Elsa groaned, stretching her limbs. Dimly, she registered the feeling of thick, soft fabric against her skin.

"Your majesty, the council meeting is in half an hour."

"What...what time is it, Kai?" Elsa muttered, eyes still closed.

"It is half past eight, Your Majesty."

Elsa jerked upright in a mild panic. Half past eight! She had rarely slept past seven!

_Oh, right. _She thought with an inner groan. _I fell asleep last night in a snowball fight with Anna._

She jumped off the bed. As she frantically made for her wardrobe, she realised that someone had carried her and Anna from their mild disaster zone in the old playroom back to their bedroom.

_And Gerda probably had to clean up the mess, _Elsa thought with a slight pang of guilt.

Elsa felt a rush of warmth for Kai and Gerda. They were much more than servants to the royal family—they were family. She couldn't even remember them looking any different from how they looked now. It was like they were always there, part of the palace, constant sentinels over her family through thick and thin. _What would I do without you?_

Elsa paused at the wardrobe. She sighed. "Great." Today she would have to attend to every single delegation present at the festival. Run damage control. And damage control was never fun. At ten o'clock, she would have to head down to the fort to meet Captain Frederik. In the afternoon, she would have to face the hordes of diplomats no doubt howling for explanations and reparations.

Anna wouldn't be awake till at least half past ten.

Instead of her snow dress, Elsa chose a subdued outfit of green and purple—the royal colours—modelled closely after her coronation gown, but broader and less..._complimentary..._to her figure. Despite wanting to don her ice gown once more, she resisted the temptation, although her heart sank again as she realised that it would have been far more comfortable.

Today, she needed to send a message. It was not Elsa speaking, or the Snow Queen. Today, her voice was the voice of Arendelle. She would protect her kingdom. Protect her people. Protect Anna.

_I am the queen._

She dressed quickly. Braided her hair. And spent some time in front of the mirror, looking herself in the eye.

_I am the queen._

She checked the tiny ornate clock on the dresser. _Nine-oh-one. _She swore internally. She hated being off-schedule.

* * *

**Nine thirty in the morning**

**The Inner Chamber, meeting room for the Council**

"This is an outrage! This is an _act of war _on Arendelle's soil!" The short, stocky councilman wheezed, banging on the table for dramatic effect. Next to him, a few council members nodded vigorously.

"Take your seat, Councilman Oppegard," Prime Minister Henningsen exhorted wearily. "We are all well aware of the gravity of yesterday's events, and none more so than the queen herself, who had faced down the assassins personally. Any and all outrage should come from her first."

Councilman Oppegard sat down slowly and grumpily. All eyes were now on the queen.

Elsa slowly rose from her seat, her calm and composed exterior falling into place. "Thank you, prime minister," she said coolly.

"I am well aware that some members of my council feel that Arendelle should immediately enforce lockdown and take certain—_extreme—_measures to apprehend the assassins. However," Elsa looked pointedly at Oppegard and the councilmen seated next to him (who were desperately trying to avoid her gaze), "I would remind each and every member of this council that the purpose of this festival was to build bridges and encourage an atmosphere of openness with the delegates, to secure Arendelle's influence for decades to come. Cracking down on delegations from three dozen kingdoms will _not _achieve that goal."

"But, Your Majesty, if I may," Oppegard began again, "the assassins are still at large. They may yet—"

"I understand your concerns, Councilman Oppegard, and I appreciate them." Elsa nodded demurely, gritting her teeth underneath her forced smile. "But brute force will not work on these assassins. If they did, the crackdown on Arendelle would have turned up results by now. As it stands, we have succeeded only in alienating guests who are already nervous as a result of yesterday's events."

"I will speak to Captain Frederik. His men will undertake more _covert _means of uncovering the assassins. I will make sure that additional guards are present and _visible _to ensure the delegates' confidence in Arendelle's security remains intact. But make no mistake—these assassins will not be found by cracking down on Arendelle's citizenry." Elsa concluded, staring defiantly around the table.

The silence was deafening. Elsa gulped; she was glad that her collars were higher than usual, and covered her throat. A tiny sliver of ice was snaking down her wrist—_stop this—stop—_

Henningsen, as usual, was the first to offer his support. "I concur with the queen. This attack is very obviously an attempt to sabotage Arendelle's efforts at reaching out to the world. We will not finish the job by alienating our potential friends and allies. It is Captain Frederik—an army man, and a sensible man—who should decide how and where to act in response. Not a pack of cantankerous curmudgeons who were busy sampling the _lefse _when the queen was fighting for the life of her sister."

Here, he glared directly at Oppegard. The councilman bristled, but averted his gaze.

"Then the remainder of our efforts shall be directed towards ensuring that the purpose of this festival is not defeated." Elsa spoke firmly, and this time she caught side of several vigorous nods from both sides of the table. _Good. I've won them over._

Elsa heard Oppegard's voice before she heard what he had to say. She winced. High, nasally, and always abrasive, his speeches were always as welcome as nails on a chalkboard.

"If I may, Your Majesty," he began, "some of us are curious about the source of your surprising—_insight—_into the nature of this attack. We have heard some rumours that you, in fact, have taken one of the assassins prisoner. Even more shockingly," and here Oppegard put on a convincingly distressed tone, "we have heard a disturbing rumour that you spoke to this prisoner in private. With no one else present."

A tiny shower of snow burst forth from Elsa's fingertips, spraying down the front of her dress. Elsa's first words—and they would have been _rude_—were already out of her lips. None of that went noticed. Because at that moment she witnessed one of the rare moments that Henningsen lost his cool.

"_Oppegard, know your place damn it!_" The prime minister roared, slamming his fist on the table with such force that across the table, a sheaf of papers went flying. "It is one thing to raise concerns at this council. It is another entirely to bring _unsubstantiated hearsay _to this table!"

Henningsen was almost purple in the face. "_And it is absolutely, completely unacceptable to make baseless insinuations against your queen!_"

Oppegard cowered, shrinking back into his seat. But his eyes still glared defiantly at Elsa.

Elsa closed her eyes briefly, and inhaled slowly. _Be in no hurry, _her father had once advised. She didn't speak until she could feel her heart slowing back down.

"It is true that we now have one of the assassins in custody." Elsa affirmed. "It is also true that I had interrogated him in private yesterday evening."

A murmur spread around the table. Several of the council members fidgeted uncomfortably.

"He yielded valuable information about his compatriots. This information will prove useful in making sure that whatever the assassins have planned _doesn't _happen."

"Your Majesty, surely you cannot take the word of a—" Oppegard cut in.

"He had no reason to lie. It appears that he had cut ties with his former comrades prior to yesterday's events." Elsa hoped she sounded more sure than she actually was. She decided not to mention that he tried to save Anna's life—or _said _he did. The same doubt palpable among her council was already raging through her heart. _What was I thinking? _Elsa hissed to herself.

"Your Majesty, if I may, perhaps you are being unduly influenced by this...infiltrator." Oppegard protested in a slippery voice. "He may well have been planted to give Her Majesty false and misleading advice. To base your counsel on the words of this—"

The temperature dropped instantly by several degrees. And Oppegard shut his mouth, his lips trembling like a fish.

"Let me make something clear, gentlemen." Elsa straightened her back, her voice steely, her hands folded on her waist like iron bars on the gates of a fortress.

"_I do not trust this assassin. _I am not so helpless as to have no mind of my own, though I know some of you regard me as such." She shot a glare at Oppegard—it was a direct shot. He sank even lower into his seat.

"But I will do anything—and everything—to make sure that Arendelle is safe. If I have to obtain information from a prisoner, I will. If I have to _personally _oversee matters to make sure that no one is harmed within the gates of my kingdom—_I will_."

Elsa breathed. The confidence, quiet but tenacious, had sprouted in her heart as she spoke.

_I am the queen._

Henningsen was already nodding vigorously. "I am with the queen, and I trust her judgment. Any more objections to Captain Frederik taking charge of this matter of security? And to the Queen's handling of this situation?"

A ripple of approval spread through the council. Some were smiling. Many simply looked bemused, but offered no objection.

Oppegard was still trying to save face. "My queen, I—I agree that you're doing what's best—especially with that prisoner. Perhaps I could arrange for—for a trained interrogator to, shall we say, grill him for further—"

Elsa cut him off quickly. "He has shown himself to be cooperative for now, and I have yet to find evidence that he is lying. That will be unnecessary."

"But—but surely you would agree that someone better _trained _in such matters would—"

"I am the queen." Elsa's tone dropped half an octave. Oppegard was silenced as effectively as if he had been gagged. "And furthermore, I am the _Snow Queen_. He will comply."

The meeting was over. One by one, the councilmen rose, bowed to the queen, and left. Oppegard couldn't make his exit fast enough.

Only Elsa and Henningsen remained. Outside the window, the sun had rose high enough to cast a sunbeam directly into the room. Whimsically, Elsa realised that it fell right between them.

"Prime minister, there's something else the prisoner said. He told me who his employers were." Elsa spoke quietly.

Henningsen nodded.

"It was the Teine Empire."

The older man's eyes widened.

Neither of them spoke. Slowly, Elsa turned to face the window. Outside, the city was waking up.

She turned behind her, and for the first time noticed the portrait of her father. A small flutter of emotion rose in the pit of her stomach.

He was much younger then, and he didn't yet have his moustache, or his deep-set and serious eyes. No, here his eyes were merry and full of mirth, his face brimming with the fullness of youth and the absence of lines. It was a portrait of Haakon the Seventh, back when he was simply Prince Athgar, before he had risen to the crown.

Elsa suddenly realised that in life, she had never seen her father more carefree and merry than he looked here. It was as if the last vestiges of true, blissful freedom had been captured in nothing more than a smattering of paint on canvas, hanging here in a meeting room.

She wondered what she would look like were an artist to paint a portrait of the Snow Queen.

_Uneasy indeed, is the head that wears the crown._

Elsa turned to Henningsen, whose gaze was still fixed on her.

"What does this mean for our kingdom, Henningsen?" She whispered.

The prime minister paused for thought, suddenly feeling very old. And thinking that his queen was so very, very young. Too young for this.

"It means, my queen—that our years of peace may be coming to an end."

* * *

**Festung Teutoburg**

**Two miles from the borders of Teutoburg Forest, Suebia**

**Six o'clock in the morning, the same day**

"_Hard to starboard!_" Kraus yelled.

The storm howled and raged overhead. Lightning slashed through the sunless sky. The winds whipped the surface of the lake into jagged and menacing shapes, churning the water a murky black pockmarked by the falling imprints of endless raindrops.

"_Only one crazy enough to be out in this storm is us!" _Bastian roared back, putting his full weight on the rudder. The tiny craft lurched to the side, narrowly missing a rogue wave.

On a calm day, Lake Tacitus was as smooth as polished glass, reflecting the pristine mountains on one end and the tall, majestic bulkwarks of Festung Teutoburg on the other.

On a day like this, however, Lake Tacitus would chew up boats and spit them out as driftwood.

A routine lake patrol had turned ugly when the storm hit. Both men were now fighting to return to the safety of the fortress or give up on life altogether.

"Let's get to the shelter of the cliff! _There!_" Krauss pointed at a small rocky hollow in the face of the cliff, fifty feet ahead.

The sail fluttered, whipping about like the wings of some crazed bird. Bastian fought to keep the rudder steady.

Then—

"Oh my—oh hell! _There!_" Bastian shouted, pointing upwards.

Krauss looked up, and his eyes widened in shock.

Someone was falling. A figure tossed and whipped about by the wind, plummeting from the walls of Festung Teutoburg.

"_Jumper!"_ Krauss yelled, to no one but himself.

The falling body hit the surface of the water with a splash audible even over the din of the storm.

_Oh the poor soul. _Krauss' heart froze. _No one can survive that._

"I see—I see him! Dead ahead!" Bastian cried out.

Krauss strained over the gunwales, looking desperately. And then a limp hand brushed across his own.

By some unbelievable stroke of fortune, a rogue wave had tossed the man right towards their craft just before he sank.

Instinct took over. He seized the hand in a firm, deathlike grip—_and not a moment too soon! —_just as the body was about to disappear beneath the waves. He pulled with all his might. The man's head emerged next.

Krauss grunted, shifting his weight against the lurching of the craft.

"_Careful!_" Bastian yelled from the stern. "You'll unbalance the boat! Just let him go, he's a dead man already!"

Krauss already had the man's body in a bear-hug, already lifting him halfway out of the water. For a moment, he considered it. _He's dead weight_. His fingers loosened.

Then he felt the miniscule beat of a pulse against his wet skin.

Instantly his muscles roared back to life and he hauled the man into the boat.

"_This one's alive!"_ He howled at Bastian.

His comrade had already managed to maneuver the craft into the relative shelter of the rocky hollow. Masterfully, he anchored the craft to a sturdy rock outcropping. The shade would be their best bet until the storm was out.

"Come here, help me check on him! We have to bring him to the fortress!" Krauss spoke breathlessly. Bastian nodded.

Cold, wet fingers ran across the man's chest. Krauss felt the faint beat of his heart. At the same time, his chest rose and fell—imperceptibly, but still palpable.

"Alright. He's still here."

The man was clad in a tattered uniform that evidently used to be white but was now anything but. His body bore the scars of hard travel. His hair, reddish and unkempt, fell across his face.

Attempting to check his airway, Krauss pushed back the mess of hair, revealing his face.

Both men gasped. The features were different now, because the ragged beard certainly wasn't there before, and the eyes weren't that sunken in.

But there was no mistaking the bright green eyes, or the full, thick sideburns.

"Oh _scheisse,_" Krauss cursed breathlessly.

"_It's Hans Westergaard."_

* * *

***cue Cut To Black***

**As always, please leave a review, they are very much appreciated and I will reply to each of them as best I can. Thank you, and I will see you soon!**


	11. Chapter 11: We All Fall Down

**To everyone who has been reading and following my story faithfully, thank you so much! And a shout-out to archtech88, Fantabulous Fantabulism and BlueOwl90 for leaving your thoughts. I keep my commitment to reply to each and every single review left on my story (unfortunately, BlueOwl90 disabled inbox replies; please know that I appreciate your thoughts!)**

**Now. *cracks knuckles* Let's mess with Arendelle some more.**

* * *

**Chapter 11: We All Fall Down**

* * *

**Festung Teutoburg**

**Ten o'clock in the morning**

The doctor stood before the ornate wooden door to the inner chamber, his closed fist raised and suspended in hesitation just inches away from the alder wood.

He exhaled to expel his apprehension. Then, firmly, he rapped on the door. Twice.

"Come in." The voice was brusque. Businesslike.

The door swung inwards, briskly and abruptly. Were the doctor serving any other lord, it would have been one of the pages or attendants who would now be ushering him in. But the doctor served Lord Hessler. And Lord Hessler opened his own doors, thank you very much.

The doctor stepped in. The first thing that hit him was the faint smell of peppermint. The second was the austerity of the room. No trophies or trappings were in sight. The long table at the center of the room was carved mahogany, but carried only a gloomy stack of files and documents. The walls were covered with maps and diagrams, not portraits and tasteful works of art.

Then again, the most powerful man in Suebia was not given to grandiosity.

"Doctor Rassmussen. You've attended to our newest arrival, I trust." Lord Hessler motioned for him to sit.

"Yes, your lordship. The prince—or shall we say, _former _prince—is well and is most likely out of immediate harm." The doctor answered.

"But?" Lord Hessler raised an eyebrow.

"I did my best." Rassmussen answered. "But there are certain—physical realities."

Rassmussen coughed. "He may recover from his other injuries, your lordship. But I regret to inform you that Hans Westergaard will never walk again."

Lord Hessler stood at the other end of the table, facing away from the doctor. Through the lone window, the first rays of sunrise peeked into the chamber.

"You have done your best, Rassmussen. Get some rest. I will speak to the guest in due time."

Rassmussen bowed, rising from his seat. "Thank you, your lordship. And my sincere apologies once more for not being able to do more."

"You have nothing to apologise for." Lord Hessler turned his head just enough to meet Rassmussen's hesitant gaze.

"One might say that this _unfortunate _incident may have just given us tremendous leverage." The lord of the fortress added, as an afterthought.

The door closed behind him.

Alone with his thoughts, Lord Hessler lingered before the massive, sprawling map that covered half of the wall of his chamber. Suebia occupied the central space of the map, bordered by the lands of Gallia on the west, The Russ on the east, and the Nordic lands to the north, across the Black Sea.

_Like a chessboard._

And he had just gained one extra piece.

Now, to put it on the board.

* * *

They gave him a bath. A shave. A change of clothes. A bed.

They couldn't give him back his legs.

He wasn't awake for most of the procedure. In his feverish delirium, he could only remember glimpses of hot white light and cold metal, and the doctor's voice once in a while—what he said, he couldn't remember. But he was conscious enough to know when he awoke that though his bones were set and his wounds stitched up, his legs were beyond saving.

Hans gripped the arms of the chair so tightly that his knuckles went white and his veins bulged. He strained, lifting himself momentarily up the back of the chair; then, he slumped back with a sigh of exertion.

He had repeated the exercise over and over the past hour. He didn't know why. Maybe he hoped that somehow he could force blood into his ruined legs, make them feel again. Maybe it was because he was so terrified of the deadness below his waist that he fought and struggled to keep it from spreading up the rest of him.

Hans turned to the bracket clock mounted on the wall opposite. Like everything in the room, it was dull in colour, its mahogany patina melding seamlessly into the drab nondescript shade of the plaster on the wall. It had been half an hour. They said they would get him soon.

Next to the clock was a broadsword, mounted on the wall along two metal brackets. Hans could recognise the make. It was the same design as the one he once owned.

The same one he once wore by his side.

The same one he used to maim the frozen monstrosity he faced at the North Mountain. The same sword that he would have ended the life of the Snow Queen with. And the same one that shattered upon the icy, cold form of Princess Anna, who shielded her sister with her own body.

His future was as shattered as his sword.

And now, he had lost not only land or titles or wealth. Those he could regain, those were things that could be won back once lost. But his body was broken.

How long until his mind followed?

Maybe that's why they put him in a chair on the very end of the room, without any way to move around on his own. Because they thought that if he managed to reach the sword—

Hans scoffed. If so, their fears were unfounded. Hans hadn't felt despair in a long time. It was a pointless emotion, with a pointless beginning and end. Despair only dulled the senses and stopped him from achieving his goals.

But he had no goal now.

This room here, this little guest chamber at the end of the corridor, was the end. The full stop to his life. Everything after that was nothing more than survival—like a corpse that continued to breathe long after its mind had died.

He was just as pointless.

Hans buried his head in his hands.

"Where," he whispered, "did it all go wrong?"

For the longest time he slumped there, resting his elbows on legs that could no longer feel their weight, feeling his freshly-cut hair tumbling through his fingers and scattering cut remnants of prickly hair across the nape of his neck. For the longest time he stayed silent, hearing nothing but his breathing and the ticking of the clock. For the longest time he sat, only because he could no longer stand.

Then the doorknob rattled, and turned in its socket.

Hans looked up.

Standing in the doorway was an imposing man, a few inches above six feet. His eyes were dark, and his face was lined by an impressive mutton-chop moustache that only served to make him look more severe.

Hans realised where he had seen him before. And the surprise of seeing him here again, of all times and of all places, jerked him out of his melancholy.

"Prince." The man nodded.

"Not anymore," Hans mumbled back.

"I've been told to escort you to the inner chamber. Lord Hessler would like to speak with you."

"Of course. I don't suppose you have an extra set of legs I could borrow?" Hans said bitterly.

The man's face remained passive. "I've brought a wheelchair."

He pushed a wheeled contraption into the room—a metal-framed chair flanked on both sides by large wheels with rubber rims. Hans had seen this wheeled chair before. During a royal visit to a hospice in a coastal city, he had seen one or two of them. They served to ferry the infirm and the elderly from place to place, being pushed along by orderlies.

"I'm not getting into that." Hans hissed.

"You don't have a choice, prince. Now hold still and let me move you."

Hans didn't bother resisting, even when the man approached and his hands gripped Hans' waist roughly.

What was the point?

* * *

**Arendelle**

**Half past ten in the morning**

"Understood, Your Majesty," Captain Frederik acknowledged with a nod. "I'll be coordinating this search personally. We will conduct a systematic sweep of the town with plainclothes guards, starting from the town square—" he pointed at the map of the kingdom "and radiating out in three-block chunks up until the docks."

He looked back up at Elsa, who stood at the opposite end of the table. "Additionally, I will personally supervise security at the festival events from now on. We will have guards covering all possible vantage points—both uniformed and plainclothes—in addition to keeping reinforcements prepared in the palace itself. While I understand your concerns about our military presence in the town, I am confident that your guests will find the added security around your person to be justified given the recent threat to your lives."

Captain Frederik rolled up the map, his goatee twitching as his lips drew into a thin line. "An assassination attempt of this scale, involving this many people, cannot stay hidden for long. They will have left trails and footprints, and we will track them down. Rest assured Your Majesty, we will find whoever did this."

Elsa nodded, impressed with Captain Frederik's confidence. Part of her felt pleased at choosing to entrust him with all security at the Frozen Festival—he had quickly assessed the situation and outlined a solid plan of action.

_And that was __**my **__decision to make, _Elsa spoke firmly in her mind. Oppegard's accusation that she was taking her prisoner's advice too liberally still rankled.

"Thank you, Captain. That will be all." Elsa said regally.

Captain Frederik bowed, his sword clinking lightly in the scabbard strapped to his waist.

Elsa exited through the low doorway of the fort barracks. Her steps echoed on the stone floor as she stepped into the narrow corridor that led away from the guards' quarters.

She expected to face this crisis alone. The overwhelming fear that filled the pit of her stomach when she hurried from the castle doors when the fighting broke out, only to see Anna cowering in fear as chaos exploded around her, still lingered in her mind like a wound.

_No, Anna, no, no, no, no, no_—she had repeated in her mind over and over, and then out loud, over and over.

The fear lingered when Anna was brought to the chambers, weak and exhausted. It remained, even when Anna declared that she was feeling fine. And the fear blossomed in her heart when she made her ill-advised decision to speak face-to-face with the dangerous prisoner that seemed to be so inextricably linked with the danger that Arendelle now faced.

The previous day was a blur. Elsa couldn't remember when she stopped to catch her breath—or whether it was early or late evening when she simply stopped in her tracks, on her way from one errand to another, to stop and collect her thoughts.

But she remembered, all too well, that she had leaned against the wall, her face against the cool surface. And then she wept and wept, until her tears streaked down the wallpaper like melting ice on a windowpane.

But the fear had lost its grip when Anna and Elsa shared their first snowball fight in what felt like forever. It retreated slowly when the two sisters talked and talked until one or both of them dozed off.

The fear had melted slowly when Henningsen backed her up during the council meeting, and offered his support. And when she looked into Captain Frederik's eyes, and felt his collected and confident demeanour, the fear had lessened still.

Her father's words suddenly came to her—a wise maxim he taught her when she was barely in her teens. A proverb he impressed upon her, the day he held her shoulders and told her that someday she would be queen.

_A great ruler knows she is great not because of her own strength, but the strength of those around her—those that believe in her and support her._

Anna. Henningsen. Captain Frederik. Kristoff. Even Olaf, in his own bubbly way.

They believed in her. They had her back.

Elsa took a breath, and exhaled, her breath a wintry mist in the mid-morning sunlight. And as the mist dissipated, so did a little bit more of her fear.

_Whoever you are, whatever you plan to do to hurt me or those I care about—if you are trying to scare me, to make me lose my way—_

_You're going to have to do better than that._

* * *

**Festung Teutoburg**

**Eleven o'clock**

Silently, Krauss wheeled the crippled man along the corridor, towards the chamber of Lord Hessler.

The steel rims of the wheelchair went _click click click _on the stone floor.

From behind, Krauss took the chance to examine the man. His ruined uniform was discarded, now replaced by the plain day-clothes worn by most of the castle staff. Having bathed and shaved, he now looked more presentable.

But his eyes were hollow. Unfocused. His gaze was fixed with the thousand-yard stare Krauss had seen so often in veterans of Europa's worst wars.

What did it take, for such a man to lose all hope in living?

Abruptly, as they rounded a corner, the man spoke.

"You were with the Duke, weren't you?"

Krauss hesitated. But only for a moment; he saw no reason to lie.

"Yes. Me and Bastian, we _used _to serve the Duke of Weselton."

If the man heard his answer, he did not show it.

Abruptly he spoke again. "The two of you. I thought I had seen you before. You were there. On the North Mountain, six months ago."

Krauss remembered. The skirmish at the Snow Queen's palace. The terrifying ice monster that blocked the way. He and Bastian attempting to slay the queen. The feeling of cold and terror as the wall of bladed ice threatened to push him off the balcony to his death. Bastian attempting to take the killing shot, and the prince interfering. The falling chandelier.

The same prince now sat in this chair. Broken.

For the first time, the man showed a flicker of emotion. He snorted.

"I guess she really messed up our lives, didn't she."

Krauss did not answer.

Silence fell again. The man's eyes glazed over, and once again nothing broke the silence except for the _click click click _of the wheelchair.

* * *

**Brenton, capital city of Inis Teine**

**Six o'clock in the morning**

The sun had yet to rise over the glens of the Western Isles.

The Teine spymaster Idris was awake even before the second knock landed on his door.

"I am awake." He called out.

"Master Idris," the voice responded. Breathless and agitated, as if its owner had run up the whole three flights of stairs leading to his bedroom.

Idris got up, his head clearing rapidly. His mind was already calculating the myriad possibilities that would lead to him being woken at this hour. None of them were good.

Crossing the room in two strides, he pulled on his overcoat. Two more wide steps brought him to the door. He pulled it open.

It was one of his couriers. A fresh faced boy, rivulets of sweat running down his beardless face. He grasped a sealed envelope in his hand. It was still sealed in waterproof canvas, and flecks of water were still clinging to its surface. Still panting from exhaustion, he handed it to the spymaster.

"Master Idris. This just arrived by sea-hawk. It's from Arendelle, sir."

Idris took the envelope. Deftly, he reached for the carving knife hidden in a strap by his waist—what kind of self-respecting spymaster doesn't sleep with a knife?—and slit the envelope open.

Unless and until the people of the world mastered magical communication, the fastest way to send a message was by sea-hawk. Idris had set the network in place himself. It used the sea-hawks native to the rocky islands of the North Sea, quite possibly the fastest living beings in the Western sky—unless dragons were somehow still around, and even then, Idris' money would still be on the sea-hawk seven times out of ten.

A message could be attached to a sea-hawk, and the bird would fly swiftly and unerringly toward its home island, guided by the compass of instinct. At the island outpost, the couriers stationed there would transfer the message to the next sea-hawk in the chain, which would in turn fly speedily to the next island, and so on until the message finally reached the coops of Brenton—and reached Idris himself. If the winds were right—and this time of the year, they were—a message could be sent in the afternoon and reach Brenton by the next day.

Of course, there was one caveat. Messages urgent enough to be sent by sea-hawk were always, always bad news.

Idris' eyes ran quickly over the contents of the letter. He recognised Henrik Veicht's signature longhand scrawl even before he began to read the words.

His face paled.

_Now it's all gone south._

His plan had failed.

Idris wasn't one to dwell on despair. His mind quickly went to work. Quickly, he assembled a course of action. One of several contingency plans fell into place. It was time to act.

He pointed at the courier, who was still gazing blankly through the doorway, doubled over to catch his breath.

"You, boy. Go fetch Prince Conleth, tell him I'm meeting him in the drawing room in fifteen minutes. Tell him it's extremely urgent. Be quick."

The lad's face fell. He clearly wasn't looking forward to another run down the castle—or having to knock on the door of the eldest prince of the Teine Empire and explain to him that he would have to wake up four hours earlier than usual.

Nevertheless, the boy took off at a reasonable pace. Behind him, the door closed.

Idris folded the letter into his pocket. Then he sat in his lounge chair as if he had all the time in the world, and began to think.

_I hope the royal court is happy._

_We might finally get the war we've all been talking about._

* * *

**Thank you so much for reading yet another chapter. To all those who have been following this story so far, you da real MVP. Please leave a review to tell me what you think; your thoughts are important to me and I reply to each and every review as best I can. See you real soon!**


	12. Chapter 12: Peace Is At An End

**Oh this one was a long one. Truth be told, for every chapter you read, a chunk of at least equal length was cut out of the final thing. I've tried to do my best to juggle the separate plot arcs and give them their proper time in the spotlight, advancing the plot on each front. **

**A special shoutout to longtime readers and supporters Fantabulous Fantabulism, Keep Calm and Be Ninja, BlueOwl90, and JuneMermaid03. Also, special thanks to archtech88 for his initial advice that guided me to write this fanfic to begin with. **

* * *

**Chapter 12: Peace is at an End**

_Soundtrack: Lorde's cover of "Everybody wants to rule the world" by Tears for Fears_

* * *

Elsa's eyes flitted around the throne room, darting from one foreign dignitary to another. She briefly locked eyes with a tall, lean man having a slight squint; hastily, she diverted her attention to a squat rotund fellow with impressive muttonchops. A bejeweled necklace caught her eye, suspended on the slender neck of a middle-aged lady with a severe scowl.

All across the room, scores of delegates and nobles murmured and buzzed, a half-dozen distinct tongues and dialects ringing audibly. Despite the variety of the assemblage, they all had one thing in common: no one was smiling.

_They're scared. Confused. Angry. Probably at me._

Unconsciously, Elsa's fist clenched around the front of her dress.

"Relax, Your Majesty," Henningsen murmured soothingly from beside her. "Don't forget, you are also among friends."

Elsa nodded, and tried her best to smile. As if on cue, she spotted a familiar shock of brown hair weaving through the crowd. Rapunzel and Eugene had just arrived. The princess glanced wildly around the room, caught Elsa's eye, and began waving enthusiastically.

Elsa's lips curved in response, and she daintily raised a hand in reply. Unfortunately, the gathered audience was more perceptive than usual—they caught the gesture and took it to be a request for silence. Instantly, the conversation ceased, and all eyes turned to fix on Elsa.

She stiffened.

_Alright, let's get this over with. Come what may._

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming here on such short notice, and I hope your stay in Arendelle has been pleasant thus far." Elsa immediately swallowed. _Pleasant? Really? After the debacle yesterday, and most of them being confined to their ships? Nice going, Elsa._

She pressed on. "I'm sure that many of you are aware of the shocking events that took place yesterday afternoon. At about four o'clock, a group of assassins managed to enter Arendelle's town square and attempted to attack my sister, Princess Anna. I would like to assure you that Anna is safe and well, and the attack was a failure. The assassins were rebuffed."

A hubbub erupted instantly in the crowd, as hasty glances and harsh whispers were exchanged.

"Please be silent, your graces," Henningsen spoke clearly in a baritone. "Her Majesty wishes to speak."

The hall was silent again.

Elsa smoothed down the front of her dress, crumpled by her incessant clenching and unclenching. Breathing deeply, she continued.

"I understand that many of you are worried and upset about what happened yesterday—"

"Worried?" The woman with the necklace expectorated suddenly. "_Worried? _There are armed killers roaming around Arendelle! How can any of us expect to feel safe?"

A small chorus of voices broke out as several delegates yelled their agreement.

"She's right!"

"If they could get to the princess, how soon before they get to us?"

"What're you doing about this?"

"Maybe we should just leave and sail at first light. Arendelle isn't safe anymore!"

"Silence, please!" Henningsen spoke, more forcefully this time. "Lady Avenley, thank you for voicing your concerns. Her Majesty will address them shortly."

Then, turning to Elsa, "Your Majesty."

Elsa gulped. But she pressed on.

"As of now, Captain Frederik has taken charge of the investigation into the events of yesterday." She nodded towards her left, drawing the eyes of her audience; bang on cue, the surly captain stood at attention, his intense gaze roving over the assemblage.

"Captain Frederik will have full authority over the security procedures of the Frozen Festival. Additionally, he will henceforth have full command over the Knights of Arendelle. He has assured me that we will not rest until every one of the assassins is apprehended and brought into custody. I am confident that with him at the helm—" Elsa hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "With him in command, there will be no further threats to your safety, or ours."

The murmurs began again. The woman called Lady Avenley was scowling. Only now did Elsa recognise the name. Her husband, Lord Avenley, Admiral of Dunwallis, commanded the largest navy in the Northern Islands—the safety of any and all ships in the region depended very much on the strength of the Dunwallis navy and their friendliness with the kingdom in question.

Dunwallis' loose trade partnership with Arendelle was severed after Elsa plunged the kingdom into winter. The Frozen Festival was supposed to be an opportunity to reestablish relationships with one of the Nordic lands' most prominent military powers—an outcome which was looking more and more dubious judging by the expressions on Lady Avenley's face and the mutters from her entourage.

_Those assassins, whoever they are, are doing a really good job making things difficult for my kingdom, _Elsa sulked glumly. _I needed Dunwallis' support. Badly._

"Have you caught anyone yet?" A voice called out.

Henningsen looked ready to interject sharply once more. The interruptions were obviously wearing thin his patience.

Elsa looked over at the crowd. "May I know who you are?"

A massive figure strode forward, and Elsa's eyes lit up in recognition.

"Lord Firmin of Auvernia, Your Majesty. Not to cast aspersions on your security detail, but thus far I've yet to see results. Have your guards done anything since yesterday, apart from making our stay here so much less enjoyable?" He rolled his eyes in disdain.

A hush fell over the crowd. Some guests were looking daggers at him. Others were shocked by his rudeness. Lord Firmin was unmoved. It was evident that he couldn't care less what anyone in Arendelle thought of him.

Elsa bit her lip, forcing down the knot of anger. _Don't let him know he got to you._

"Lord Firmin." She forced a smile. "We have managed to detain a prisoner who was part of the assassin group, and have interrogated him. He has provided valuable information that will guide our investigations into yesterday's unfortunate incident."

She couldn't resist pressing on.

"However, now that you mention it, I would like to ask something of you. Yesterday, one of the assassins was spotted leaving Krokus Inn, where you and your contingent were residing. Did you notice anything untoward?"

Lord Firmin's left eye twitched. "I don't know what you mean, Your Majesty. I am as shocked by the events—"

"And is it true that some members of your entourage are currently missing?"

"I am unsure. We have yet to do a full count of our—"

"Including the representative of the Teine Empire, Morcant mac Nuallan?"

This time, Elsa could _swear _the temperature dropped by a whole ten degrees, and for the first time it had nothing to do with her or her powers. Every eye and unfriendly face turned to Lord Firmin. For the first time, he looked flustered.

"Based on our interrogations," Elsa continued calmly, "we have reason to believe that the assassins responsible for the attack on _my sister_—" she emphasised those two words "—were in the employ of the Teine Empire. And they used the Auvernian contingent as their base of operations."

The hall exploded in cries of shock and disbelief.

"_Libel! Slander!_" Lord Firmin was howling. "I will not stand for this!" He wagged a finger at the crowd, which was parting quickly to isolate him. "You dare insult the integrity of the kingdom which I represent? You? You dare?"

Elsa noticed coolly that despite his rage, he directed his fury towards those around him rather than at the throne. Arrogant though he was, he knew better than to insult the Snow Queen in her own court.

"Teine _dog_!" Lady Avenley hissed back. "You eat from under the table of our sworn enemy, and yet you dare treat us with such insolence? And now you _aid and abet _an assassination attempt on the royal house of Arendelle?"

"I am not responsible! How dare you!"

"Howdare _you!_" A heavily-accented gentleman accosted Lord Firmin. "You brought an enemy right to our doorstep in your ships! You are an accomplice to attempted murder!"

"_Enough! Be silent in the presence of the queen!_" Henningsen roared. The crowd fell silent. In the suddenness of the quiet, for a moment there Elsa could hear the pillars of the palace quaking.

Lady Avenley stepped forward, her hand raised. "Your Majesty, if I may."

Henningsen's eyelids had begun twitching.

"You may speak, Lady Avenley," Elsa said hurriedly.

"This is most definitely an act of war. Arendelle and the Teine Empire are the oldest of enemies—anyone with a basic grasp of history is aware of that." She folded her hands in front of her. "Now, they evidently seek to rekindle the flames of conflict with an attempt on your lives. This is only the prelude to something worse. Something we have been dreading for a very long time."

Lady Avenley paused for dramatic effect. "This means only one thing. The Teine Empire is preparing for war. War with the Nordic lands."

Elsa felt her hands grow cold. Murmurs arose once more, and worried looks were exchanged.

_War._

The word struck a chilling chord in her heart. _War. _Her great-great-grandfather King Harold was the last monarch to taste the bloodshed of war—and gave his life for it. Since then, entire generations of kings and queens had risen and faded without knowing the clamour of war, including her parents.

Now, Arendelle's days of peace would end with her.

"Now, now, Lady Avenley." The man with the heavy accent stepped forward, adjusting his collar. "Let us not be hasty in drawing conclusions. This is, after all, the word of a criminal and an assassin." He nodded towards Elsa. "Tensions being as high as they are—perhaps we should not risk escalating them."

Lady Avenley bit back a retort, then forced a smile. "I appreciate your input, General Ignacio. But mark my words. This smacks of the dastardly tactics of the Teine Empire. They doubtless have decided to move against the Snow Queen during the tender first year of her rule. They see her as a threat. And they have made their first move against that threat."

_It's amazing how they can discuss me in my own court like I'm not even here, _Elsa thought, mildly annoyed. And a small flicker of doubt began chewing in her heart. Despite outranking every single dignitary in the room, Elsa was painfully aware that many of them were twice—and some three times—her age. What would a twenty-two year old _girl _know about the viciousness of politics? It was only natural to talk above her—wouldn't want to worry the lass with matters far beyond her years.

"General Ignacio," Lady Avenley pressed on sharply, "should the Nordic kingdoms go to war once more, Dunwallis must have your support. I urge you to pledge your army to our cause. It is the only chance. Together, we will fortify Arendelle—and we can draw out the invaders into a war of attrition."

Elsa stomped her foot in frustration. Instantly, as her foot hit the tiled floor, the pattern of a snowflake blossomed forth across the hall, sweeping down the carpet. Cries of surprise overtook the assemblage as they turned to face the queen. Many of them shivered inadvertently from the sudden drop in temperature, as the carpet turned milky white with the purity of newly-formed frost.

Lady Avenley opened her mouth and closed it abruptly—Elsa felt good knowing that something could unsettle the lady.

"Ladies. Gentlemen." Elsa's voice was serene, but forceful and cold. "May I remind you all that the Frozen Festival is a joyous occasion for Arendelle and her neighbours. I will not permit it to devolve into a war council. This will be the last time I will speak of this."

Elsa watched Lady Avenley's jaw grind, as she struggled with herself, clearly itching to speak. General Ignacio had retreated, not daring to make eye contact with the queen. Though stricken and obviously ruffled, Lord Firmin looked momentarily vindicated.

"That is all. I appreciate your attention, and I wish you the very best of days here in our kingdom of Arendelle." Elsa waved gently. Like steam fading from the surface of a glass window, the frosty patterns dissipated, leaving the floor as pristine as ever. She heard several guests sigh in relief as the temperature rose back to normal.

Henningsen took that as his cue. "Court is adjourned. Please clear the hall."

Slowly, noisily, the guests emptied the banquet hall. Along the way, Elsa kept a close eye on Lady Avenley. She was still conferring with General Ignacio in hushed tones, stealing an occasional glance back at Elsa.

Frowning, Elsa turned to Henningsen. "She's going to turn this into a war council anyway, isn't she?"

Henningsen scowled, looking straight ahead at the slender back of the lady as she disappeared into the mass of the crowd outside. "She's husband to the most powerful man this side of the Nordic seas, and she knows it. I'm guessing she sees this as an opportunity. My gut tells me she'll be speaking with at least a dozen other dignitaries by the end of the day—weaseling out supply agreements and defensive pacts for a war she _thinks _she's going to fight."

Elsa pinched the bridge of her nose. "Nothing's going according to plan."

"You'll find, my queen, that when it comes to things worth doing, little goes according to plan," Henningsen replied serenely.

He motioned to the guards, who nodded curtly and moved in to close the doors.

"But you did well. You stood for what Arendelle has always stood for—peace. Through his thirty years on the throne, your father was goaded and harassed constantly by forces within and without, to abandon Arendelle's policy of isolationism and peace. He stood firm." He bowed slightly towards Elsa. "You honour his legacy."

"But—" Elsa whispered. "What if Lady Avenley's right? What if we _are _going to war? What then?"

She clenched her fist tightly. Memories rose forth unbidden. The rage and fear combined in a poisonous sump, her hands outstretched, a wall of icy spikes rushing forward like a tidal force of nature. Marshmallow rising from the snow on the ground and the fear in her heart, a destructive force sworn to her will. _The Snow Queen, at war._

"What then," Henningsen repeated softly. Then, breaking protocol, he placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, sending ripples of warmth into the heart of a very unsure and very fearful girl.

"What then, is that you will do what you have always done. Triumph over fear, and lead our kingdom forward."

* * *

The sky was red and Anna was standing on the icy surface of a massive skating rink, spreading as far and wide as the eye could see. The ice was crimson, like a frozen sea of blood.

She stumbled forward, disoriented. The ice was slippery and her footing was unsure—she fell. Her outstretched hands collided painfully with the scarlet ice underneath, and as she pushed herself up, she looked into another her—a perfect reflection in the ice beneath, only dyed crimson in the glow of the red sky above and the red ice below.

Anna called out the first name she could think of.

"Elsa..."

Without warning, a section of ice burst into pieces only feet from where she was. Screaming, she covered her head with her hands. Then a second explosion. Then a third. Each time, shards of frozen water were flung into the air like steam from a geyser, leaving a perfectly round hole in the placid icy surface.

Every explosion sounded exactly the same. It was the same sound that had terrified her that afternoon at the town square. The sound of the mysterious weapons firing, and the ice shattering around her.

"_Elsa!_"

There was a smell in the air. The smell of animals, of dirt, of raw danger and mountain air. A smell that set every hair on her body on end.

Then Anna saw her. The Snow Queen, standing regal and tall, her back turned, the smooth icy cape billowing behind her in some unseen wind. In front of Elsa was a man, frozen in ice, his entire body encased in a prison as firm and unyielding as glass. His face was dispassionate and blank.

And then she noticed it. Near the side of his stomach, a bright red wound was spreading like an inkblot on a blank page. It grew and expanded to cover the entire surface of the ice, staining the red ice redder still.

The smell grew, filling Anna's nostrils.

Then the man looked straight at Anna, and smiled.

And he exploded. Bursting into a million shards of red, red ice, raining down across the motionless figure of Elsa, and the endless landscape.

Anna awoke screaming.

"_Gah!_"

She flailed, her arms and legs bouncing off soft, downy things. _Pillows. I'm in bed. _She gasped, trying to quieten her heart—it felt like it was going to jump straight out of her chest. Her head felt heavy, her eyes stung—she felt like she had slept for days, yet was as tired as if she hadn't slept at all.

Anna stretched out her arms, yawning. Outside her window, the sun was well above the horizon. A friendly sunbeam had fallen onto the foot of her bed, tickling her foot with gentle warmth. She smiled, and closed her eyes. She had until the sunbeam reached her face before it got too uncomfortable to sleep—might as well lie down a little more.

She sniffed. The smell of animals was still there.

"_Yah_!" Anna sat bolt upright.

It was coming from her left, on the far end of the bed. Slowly, fearfully, she turned.

"Oh—come on," she groaned with relief.

Kristoff was slumped in the corner, in a chair too big for him, still dressed in his snow-caked mountain clothes and boots half-covered with drying mud. His entire body reeked of mud and dirt—_where did he go so late? And why's he covered in snow? _Errant strands of blond hair covered his forehead, and a layer of fresh stubble had caught some flakes of frost and trapped them on his chin. Kristoff was fast asleep, and looked like nothing would wake him.

Anna smiled. He'd never looked so handsome.

"Hey, mountain man. You're in my chair." Playfully, she pitched a pillow at him. With perfect aim, it hit him in the face.

Kristoff fell off the chair with a yelp, arms waving wildly. "_Ah!_ _Sven!_"

Anna burst out laughing.

The mountaineer leapt to his feet, ungainly and exhausted. "Whu' da' goin' on?" Kristoff mumbled, his lips drooping.

"Rise and shine, sleepyhead. Where were you last night?" Anna scratched her ear sleepily.

Kristoff stared blankly, his eyes unfocused. Then—"oh." Then a little while longer—"oh yeah. Last night." And finally. "Oh yeah. Where I was last night."

Then he rubbed his eyes vigorously. "Last night I was—last night I went to see Grand Pabbie. To ask—for his help. Help Elsa."

"Help?" Anna yawned. If she was more awake, she would have found the whole thing side-splittingly hilarious. Two sleepy youngsters, trying to have a conversation without falling asleep in the middle of it. Her eyelids slowly drew shut like the lips of two lovers. _Oh if Elsa could see us now._

Elsa.

Anna's eyes snapped open. "Elsa."

She turned to her half-comatose boyfriend. "Kristoff! What did you say? About Elsa? What did Grand Pabbie say?"

Kristoff shook his head blearily. "Oh yeah. Yeah. I need to talk to Elsa. Grand Pabbie says he needs to see her right away, as soon as possible. It's important."

Anna frowned. "Well that's going to be difficult. She's really busy."

The mountaineer nodded, although Anna couldn't tell if he was nodding in agreement, or nodding off. "She needs to see him, anyway," Kristoff mumbled. "If Grand Pabbie wants to see someone, it's _always _important."

"Okay. Anything else Grand Pabbie said?"

"Hm? Oh yeah. Yeah. Grand Pabbie said that the prisoner in our dungeon is very dangerous. And said that Elsa must never go near him and allow him to touch her."

"You don't need Grand Pabbie to tell her that." Anna scowled. "Someone like him—Elsa wouldn't touch him with a ten foot pole."

Kristoff looked back with half-open eyelids. "Yeah. True. Still, gotta pass on the massage—I mean, message."

"Uh hm." Anna smiled weakly, her own eyelids falling shut. They felt like two ton stone slabs sliding downwards. "Maybe later. After she meets the degelation. I mean, delegation."

Kristoff nodded. His head went slowly up, then down, and then stayed down. He was fast asleep.

Anna rolled over and let sleep claim her again. Thankfully, the nightmares didn't come back.

Such is the nature of fate, that small things and little choices often become the hinges upon which the doors of destiny swing open or shut. Had Kristoff gone immediately to see Elsa, later events might have gone very differently indeed. As it was, the following few hours would be some of the worst that the palace would see.

* * *

"So let me get this straight."

Idris stood motionless, his eyes to the ground. He wasn't fearful of wrath or tempers—goodness knows he had seen his share of them. But it was always better to weather the storm in silence and then provide counsel once cooler moods arose.

"I _specifically instructed you _not to attempt any assassinations in Arendelle." Prince Conleth strode the length of the room in three wide steps, his voice level, his hands trembling with suppressed rage. "Very specifically. My exact words."

"And what do I hear, first thing this morning?" He rounded on Idris. "That your gang of assassins made _attempted to kill the princess Anna of Arendelle, and failed!_"

His anger finally broke through the veneer of his self-control. Lifting a wine glass from the nearby table, he hurled it with full force into the fireplace. It shattered with a tinkling noise that made Idris wince slightly in spite of himself.

"They acted beyond their orders." Idris wasn't quite telling the truth. But Conleth didn't have to know that. "Killing the princess was not part of the plan."

Conleth shook his head angrily. He pointed a finger at Idris. "None of that matters now, does it? What matters is what's done. And what's done is that we're _screwed. _Now what're you going to do about this?"

Idris sighed with brief relief. The prince had at least transitioned from _whose fault is it? _to _what are you going to do about it? _which was always safer territory.

"It wasn't a complete loss. My operatives managed to scout out the full strength of Arendelle's defenses and guard reserves, along with a full map of Arendelle. Also, we've intercepted some communiques between certain delegates present at the festival."

"What kind of communiques?"

"Very useful ones—and very troubling. It appears that there is a league of Nordic counties and kingdoms that is attempting to resurrect the old Nordic league."

Conleth turned his head, frowning. The Nordic league was last formed over three hundred years ago, a hastily cobbled-together conglomerate of duchies, states and kingdoms in the Nordic lands, banded together for one purpose—to defend the Northern seas from the Teine invasion. To their credit, they had put up a decent fight, and were partly the reason that the Teine Empire failed to extend further than the gates of Arendelle. An armistice was called, and the empire retreated.

Of course, the thing about uniting against a common foe is that once the foe is gone, so is the unity. The Nordic league soon collapsed into a mess of feuding states and rivalry, and the former allies resumed their bickering and competition. Conleth couldn't imagine them uniting again for any reason.

"Why? We've not founded any new colonies in the Nordic seas for some time," Conleth inquired.

"From some of these letters, it appears that some of the Nordic states are trying to act preemptively. In particular," Idris retrieved a handwritten copy of one of the intercepted letters, "the Lady Avenley of the city-state of Dunwallis appears to think that a second Teine invasion is a matter of _when_, not _if._ She thinks we're going to invade Arendelle very soon."

Conleth smirked. "A strange day it is indeed, when our enemies for once think us more bloodthirsty than we actually are. I have no desire for war in Arendelle. War is messy and costly, both in coin and in blood."

Idris nodded. "Still, a Nordic league is a definite threat to our interests in the region. Thus far, four kingdoms have expressed interest in lending their forces to Dunwallis. They plan to mass their ships soon, and blockade Teine colonies in the Nordic seas upon the first sign of hostility from us."

"Then it is best that we dismantle this Nordic league before it ever comes to fruition."

Idris nodded. "There is a second problem."

"You might as well tell me."

Idris paused. "It's your brother. Prince Eldrid."

Conleth clenched his fist instinctively. "Tell me."

"As you know, Prince Eldrid has been extremely vocal about his desire for a second invasion of the Nordic lands. And he has ranted for hours on end in the council room that we need to march into Arendelle and bring back Queen Elsa's head on a pike."

Conleth groaned, remembering the bizarre scene. _The insufferable idiot._

Idris retrieved a second document. "From this missive, it appears that he has been making arrangements to convert the production of many of our cities to armament manufacturing. As it turns out, several shipments of these weapons have recently gone missing in the area around Weselton."

"_What?_ What was he doing with our weapons?"

"My spies tell me that he's trying to wage a proxy war with Arendelle by supplying and funding various pirate and bandit groups operating in and around the Nordic seas. No doubt, he hopes that some of these bandits would use our weapons to mount an assault on Arendelle. By some twisted reasoning, he sees no problem with handing out dangerous weaponry to low-lifes and ruffians so long as they were fighting 'the real enemy.'"

Conleth cursed inward. His second brother was blessed with all of his father's ferocity and none of his wisdom. Eldrid was impulsive, rash, loud and unreasonable, his head full of the hot steam of glorious warfare and the gleaming triumph of victory. Eldrid fancied himself a general, and would often visit his 'war tents' in the highlands, which usually contained a hot bath, a king-sized bed, and a girl or two to warm it up.

"So that means that our top-secret weapons are floating about the sea—or the black market, more likely than not," Conleth fumed. "Very well done, Eldrid. You truly are one of a kind."

Despite his pretentions, Prince Eldrid had not so much as an hour of experience in the art of warfare. He adorned himself with every trapping of warfare, none of which he had earned. He had not shed so much as a drop of sweat, let alone blood, on the field of combat.

In contrast, Conleth's five years of service during the Ullenster rebellion, and three years henceforth fighting pirate activity in the Channel, had hammered the values of restraint, wisdom, and careful planning into his head—values which his brother lacked, and lacked sorely. Eldrid was no general, and nothing was more dangerous or damaging than a jackdaw who thought himself an eagle.

"I'll have to talk to Eldrid soon—along with all of my brothers." Conleth swept the hair from his forehead. "We need to mount a proper response to the situation in Arendelle. A _measured _response. And it has to be me in charge—not an idiot like Eldrid."

Idris nodded. He retrieved a third document, this time a military manifest.

"In any case, should it come to the use of force, we have useful intelligence. The total military force of Arendelle numbers no more than five hundred. Three hundred of them consist of the elite Knights of Arendelle, with the other two hundred being auxiliary troops manning the castle fort. The fort itself extends along the length of the walls, and is well-supplied and guarded."

Idris flipped the page. "Arendelle commands a small force of about forty ships, most of them no larger than brig class. Most of them are ramming frigates, with a few being fitted with onagers for long-range bombardment. Nevertheless, the defenders are well-trained and highly skilled, and Arendelle's narrow fjord means that their small navy can hold quite well against an invading force of any size. In addition, there are five hill positions overlooking the fjord, each equipped with a ballista. Any invading force will have to traverse over two miles of the fjord, completely in the open and in range of all five ballistae. A significant defensive advantage for Arendelle."

"Leonidas at Thermopylae," Conleth muttered. The myth of the old Greek hero in the narrow mountain passage, holding off an army of tens of thousands, was a sober warning that numbers did not win a battle. It was a lesson that could go both ways. Arendelle's years of peace were due to more than just her pacifist policies—the land itself offered her refuge and protection, restricting the movement of any invading force, making Arendelle herself a prize not worth the bloodshed.

He hoped it didn't have to come to war—it would be costly, bloody, and with an uncertain outcome. But hoping alone was not in his nature. Even at the table of peace, one's sword should always be sharp and eased out of its scabbard.

Conleth needed the right sword. And he instantly thought of none but the very best.

"Idris," he commanded, "send word to the highland elite garrisons. Those boys up north have been training for precisely this. I need one regiment in particular, prepped and ready."

"Which one, Your Highness?"

Conleth smiled. "Get me the Artic Wolves."

_Shock troops. _The one form of infantry that excelled at puncturing stoic defences and wreaking havoc behind enemy lines.

Idris nodded. "Yes. Anything else, princeling?"

"Get the beasts ready. _**Belenus **_and _**Borvo**_**.**"

The twin monsters. _Our monsters._

Idris nodded, and for the first time, he smiled. Of course, it might all come to nothing, and in fact both of them hoped it did. It was always preferable to deescalate a conflict and dismantle a potentially dangerous situation.

But they were still Teine. And the taste of warfare brought forth a primal howl from their hearts—the call of bloodshed, and the heat and passion of battle.

Idris stepped out from the room.

Conleth supplied the orders. Kilian, the guardian of the armory, would supply the weapons and equipment. Kayneth, as admiral of the navy, would be in full command once Teine troops moved over water. The entire war machine was oiled and ready, yet both Idris and Conleth hoped that it would never have to be activated.

However, forces beyond their control were at work. And soon, against their own wishes, the King-to-be and the spymaster would be supplied with something they had not anticipated.

_An excuse for war_.

* * *

Henrik Veicht was not having the best of days. The man some called the greatest mercenary in the world now found himself in a situation where his skills couldn't do much. His plans had failed. The princess was still alive. Arendelle was in uproar. And he and what remained of his squad could do little but stay holed up in a dingy shop block in the town square, out of sight of patrolling guards, surviving off the meager food stocks.

He had sent Idris a full report of their operations. No doubt, his analysis of Arendelle's military forces would prove useful and informative. But Veicht suspected that after his failure, Idris would all but excommunicate him once he had what he needed. After all, Veicht and his ilk were once on death row, dead in all but name. What were they but disposable?

"Henrik Veicht."

His instincts reacted before his mind did. Quick as a flash, Veicht drew his pistol and cocked the hammer with his thumb, then spun around.

"Calm yourself. I am here in peace." The voice came from the shadows at the end of the room, far from what little light leaked in from the boarded-up windows. Veicht knew the floor plan by heart. The room was a dead end. _How did he get in_?

"Show yourself." Veicht raised the pistol, his grip steady.

A figure stepped forward from the darkness, peeling out of it like a blob of inky shadow slowly taking human form. He was clad all in black, in what looked like leather body armor, and his face was covered with a wrapped mask. He bore no insignia or identifiable objects.

"Your services are required, Henrik Veicht." The man reached for his pocket, and Veicht stiffened. "Calm yourself. I am not armed. And if I was, you'd be dead already."

The stranger retrieved an envelope, sealed and unmarked. "My employer is in need of your skills. Your operations in Arendelle are not yet at an end."

"Yeah? Well forget it," Veicht retorted. "I already work for someone, thank you very much."

"Of that much I am aware. Unfortunately, your failure to assassinate the Princess Anna means that your employment is all but terminated. I'm sure that the spymaster _Idris Takheran_ would have no hesitation in cutting his losses."

"What—wait, how did you—?"

"The Teine Empire is not the only one with a spy network, and I daresay we've been around for far longer than they have. In any case, my employer has been watching recent incidents with interest."

Stepping forward slowly and deliberately, he handed the envelope to Veicht. "He would like to offer you a job. Freelance basis, of course, but you will be paid handsomely. Complete this job satisfactorily, then we'll talk some more."

Veicht handled the envelope suspiciously. "Tell me first. What do you want me to do?"

"The Dunwallis flagship _Estella _is moored two hundred feet from the harbor. Next to it: the Auvernian flagship_ Le Faucon, _anchored just fifty feet away. We need you to board the Estella discretely. The ship layout and crew manifests are included in the envelope I have just given you."

"And what then?"

"The _Estella _is equipped with a battery of long-range ballistae—two-talent caliber projectiles, incendiary bolts, four on each side of the ship. Once you are on board, you will fire a full broadside into the Auvernian flagship _Le Faucon_."

"Are you mad?" Veicht spat. "You want me to fire on a ship from another kingdom? Start a war?"

"Precisely so. I need not remind you that war is the best climate for men like you—and me—to thrive and prosper."

"And what does your employer have in mind?"

"He simply wishes to facilitate an already inevitable outcome—war between Arendelle and the outside world. Your attack on Princess Anna, though a failure, was a first step. This will be a _leap_. Queen Elsa will have no choice but to go to war; all she _may _choose is the enemy she wishes to face."

Veicht scowled. He gripped the envelope tightly, crumpling it slightly along the long edge. It wasn't impossible. Veicht and his team had already turned stealth boarding and infiltration into an art form. In the ensuing chaos, it wouldn't be difficult to slip away—particularly if the Auvernian ship decides to return fire.

No, what troubled him was the fact that for the second time in the past few days, Veicht felt that he was losing control of his own career. A puppet master, finally catching sight of the strings connected to his own limbs.

"First tell me this. No false names, no nonsense. Who is your employer?"

The man nodded. "No problem. I work for an organisation called the Kestrel Order. My employer's name is Albrecht Hessler. If you were to try to dig up either of those names, you will either hit a dead end, or become a dead man."

Veicht frowned. He was getting nowhere.

"Alright. Let's say I help you. What's your pay?"

The masked stranger tossed him a pouch, and Veicht caught it. It hit his palm like a punch.

"Seven hundred marks, up front. Two thousand marks upon completion of the mission."

Veicht gulped. He had just been paid the equivalent of six months' worth of service under the Teine Empire.

_Who is this Hessler person, to have pockets so deep?_

"Time is running short, Veicht, and I must take my answer back quickly. Will you, or won't you?" The man stepped back.

Veicht nodded. "Alright. I'll do it."

"Excellent. Then we will meet again once you have met success."

"Alright. How do I find you?"

The stranger chuckled. "Believe me. I'll find _you_."

Veicht lowered his eyes. He looked at the heavy pouch of gold coins, then at the envelope containing his instructions. Then back at the pouch.

When he looked up, the room was empty and he was alone.

* * *

Hans noticed three things once he was wheeled into the room.

One. The man they called Lord Hessler was built like a soldier, not a nobleman. He had broad shoulders and limbs as solid as cedar trunks—a body hardened by the battlefield, not softened by years of privilege amid the trappings of nobility.

Two. Despite having looked at the same features for a good minute or two—the deep-set eyes, large sharp nose, thin lips with mild dimples and lack of any facial hair—Hans still couldn't put down Lord Hessler's exact age.

Three. The walls of the room were covered with maps and diagrams. Hans gave them a cursory glance; they appeared to be maps of various regions in Europa, dotted with blue and red pins. His best guess? A military campaign.

Hans perked up as his mysterious host walked towards him, his strides long and firm.

"You are Hans, correct?" He had no trace of an accent.

Hans nodded.

"Former prince of the Southern Isles, former Duke of Soren, former member of House Westergaard. That is you?" Lord Hessler inquired further.

Hans winced. He nodded.

"My apologies for the insensitivity. I understand that circumstances have been less than pleasant for you of late." The lord of the castle flipped through a small notebook he procured from his jacket pocket. "I merely wish to confirm some details. Please correct me if I get anything wrong."

Hans simply stared.

"Pardon me." The strange man coughed. "My apologies for the rudeness. My name is Albrecht Hessler, and I am the lord and commander of this fortress."

He nodded towards Hans, who simply grimaced.

"Now, moving on. I am interested in your history. You have been declared _persona non grata—_unwelcome—in 'the Southern Isles and the lands of all her allies,' according to this edict from your father. This means you cannot own property or seek a job anywhere in your kingdom." Lord Hessler flipped a page. "According to ship records, you boarded an unlicensed merchant trawler to Suebia on the eighteenth of September, to seek better fortunes."

Hans froze. _How did he know? _He gave no one his real name. No one saw him board the ship.

"You seem surprised. Don't be alarmed. My network is wide, but I mean you no harm. Now let us move on."

Lord Hessler thumbed through yet another page. "You joined a _landsknecht _troop four months ago, roving in and around the border between Corona and Suebia. Gained quite a reputation too, from what these reports say. A capable fighter and skilled swordsman. Very impressive."

Hans recalled those harrowing months, fighting alongside the ruffians and outcasts of society. Dressed in wild colours and outrageous outfits, the _landsknechts _were mercenaries at best and bandits at worst. The little kingdoms and duchies of Suebia used to employ them as fighting troops during times of war, including for a time Weselton itself.

Fifty years ago, however, most of the city-states of Suebia signed a treaty outlawing the employment of _landsknechts. _Ever since then, they have become little more than roving bands of outlaws. Townships and provinces would sometimes hire them to fight bandits. More often than not, the bandits were other _landsknechts, _and most _landsknechts _in turn were bandits when not under hire. A harsh few months for Hans, but one that he found necessary for his survival.

"Which brings us to the events of yesterday. What would cause a capable and resourceful young man such as yourself to seek an end to his life, so far from home?"

Hans scowled. "I didn't."

"You jumped from my castle."

"I didn't _jump_. I _fell_."

"You _fell_." Lord Hessler raised an eyebrow. "You fell. Fell, while doing what, Hans?"

Hans paused, twiddling his thumbs. "I was trying to get into the castle."

"And why would you do that?" Lord Hessler drew nearer, looking Hans intently in the eyes. A hint of a smile was creeping up the corners of his lips, making him look more sinister than he already was.

Hans turned away to break his gaze. "I—was hired by somebody to break into the castle. He told me to steal something for him. So I climbed up to the window. Then the storm hit. I lost my grip. I fell."

Lord Hessler nodded. _Not a suicide attempt, then._ He was pleased. Suicidal individuals made for poor recruits. Lack of self-preservation and an unstable mood were liabilities, not assets, in this line of work.

Hans already had impressive _curriculum vitae_. The _landsknechts _were notoriously unforgiving to newcomers. For Hans to have accrued such a reputation among them was nothing short of inspirational.

"I have more questions if you don't mind. More sensitive ones, this time." Lord Hessler drew up a chair and sat down opposite Hans' wheelchair.

"I wish to ask about your time in Arendelle."

Hans instantly sat up, his shoulders squaring off combatively. "You know the story. Everybody does. I have nothing to add to that."

"I respectfully disagree." Lord Hessler smiled for real this time. "I think you'd have very interesting things to say."

Hans looked up, glaring at the older man. "Fine. Shoot."

"First question. The eternal winter of Arendelle, six months ago. I'm told that when the blizzard hit Arendelle, you passed out hot food and blankets to all of Arendelle's citizens and offered them shelter within the palace. When the stocks in the palace ran out, you topped up the supplies from your own ship. Correct?"

Hans nodded impassively.

"Interesting. The stories all paint you as some sort of cold-hearted and manipulative murderer, but this seems unusually kind of you. Mind explaining your reasoning?"

"I try not to let anyone die if they don't have to."

"You wanted the throne, am I right?"

"Yes. But there's no point ruling over a frozen kingdom with half its population dead from frostbite."

"Very pragmatic of you. I like that."

"I don't give a damn."

"I'm sure you don't. Next question." Lord Hessler flipped yet another page.

"Alright, here we go. It seems that prior to your own attempt on Queen Elsa's life, you attempted to spare her twice. The first time was at her ice palace, where you pleaded with her to stand down and later tried to divert a crossbow quarrel fired at her—by Bastian, no less, I'm sure you know him. The second time was when you offered her freedom in exchange for lifting the winter. Yet later on, you yourself attempted to slay Elsa. You saved her twice, and then went on to kill her. Mind explaining this contradiction?"

Hans swallowed, still glaring at Lord Hessler. _Ah damn it all, he's the only one who's actually interested in listening. _

Taking a deep breath, Hans began talking.

"I didn't plan to kill her from the start. I didn't engineer some massive plot to cause her death, or that of her sister." Hans gripped the sides of his wheelchair. "All I ever wanted was the throne of Arendelle, because I sure wasn't getting the throne of the Southern Isles. I wanted it with as little bloodshed as possible. If I could do it without having anyone killed, I would have."

"Why Arendelle? A small isolated kingdom on the fringe of the Nordic seas seems a peculiar place for your ambition to take you." Hessler stroked his chin.

Hans sighed. "I had my eye on Arendelle for a while. Arendelle has so much potential—a perfect location shielded from the fierce northern winds by the high mountains, an ideal position for trade and commerce. Yet it was in the hands of two inexperienced young girls, bereaved, emotionally unstable, and unready for the challenge of leadership. From the rumors, the queen-to-be barely left her room. Neither were obviously prepared to rule." He swallowed his saliva. "I saw my opening, and I took it."

"You don't have a very high opinion of Queen Elsa, or Princess Anna, then."

"I didn't. At least until Elsa suddenly revealed her powers over ice and snow. Then everything changed."

"Including your plans."

"Yes. I had intended to marry either Elsa or Anna, marry into the royal family. But the blizzard threw everything off track. All of a sudden, Elsa was an outcast, and Anna was going out to look for her, and there was no guarantee either of them would return. I had to change my plans—factor in the possibility that only one, or neither, of them would survive."

"But when Anna left, she left you in charge of the kingdom. With her gone, you were the _de facto _leader of Arendelle, and in fact you took charge of relief efforts. Why didn't you just end it there?"

"I had no legitimacy. As far as Arendelle was concerned, I was just the nice foreign guy handing out food and blankets. I needed a _formal _transfer of power before I could take the throne."

"You tried to kill the princess." Surprisingly, Hessler was more curious than accusatory.

"I did. By then when she returned from the mountain weak and cold with white hair, I had to believe that she was beyond saving. I cut my losses. Anna was dead weight, a loose end. I had to readjust my plans."

"But then you offered to free Elsa if she would just lift the winter."

Hans banged his fist down on the armrest. "Because somebody _had _to lift the winter! Every second the wind howled and the snow poured down, all of us were getting closer and closer to death by freezing. If Elsa started it, maybe she could stop it. And if I could _talk _her into stopping this madness, I would try. And so I did. Maybe if she did, later on I could talk her into marrying me, or giving up the throne. From grief and guilt over her sister's death, you know. Either way, one less death, and one step closer to my goal."

"You prioritised Arendelle's survival over your ambitions, at least. Of all the dastardly deeds you are accused of, this one seems almost—admirable."

"Yeah, well, it didn't matter, because Elsa couldn't stop the winter."

"And you decided to kill her. To end the winter, or to seize the throne?"

Hans' eyelid twitched. "Both," he answered truthfully.

"And what did you _feel_, through this whole thing?"

"I was worried. My plan seemed to unravel at every turn. It eventually did. But for a moment there, I was so close to getting what I wanted. Then—something happened. Anna froze. Then she was alive again. Elsa restored the kingdom and brought back summer. And me—well, you know the rest."

Hessler nodded understandingly. "But you misunderstand. I meant, did you feel scared? Happy? Fearful? You scarcely spoke of your feelings through all this."

Hans cocked his head, puzzled. "I didn't feel. It wasn't necessary. I just wanted to get to my goal."

"You didn't _feel_? You mean you chose to ignore your emotions?"

"No, I meant I didn't have much of them to begin with." Hans clenched and unclenched his fist, his knuckles alternating between angry scarlet and white.

"Ever since I was little—well, mummy and daddy weren't exactly very open with their emotions themselves. I can't remember the last time either of them touched me, apart from my father's beatings. Sure, mum wiped a tear from her eye when she sent me away from the Southern Isles forever, but I'm about half sure that was a tear of relief." Hans turned his head, frowning.

Then he smirked. "As for my brothers, I was invisible to them. They talked as if I wasn't there, acted like I was part of the decoration. Useful training, actually. I learned to disappear. Invisible men don't feel, don't cry, don't show what they don't want seen. I grew up knowing how to fake it; I could shed tears when I was supposed to be sad, grin from ear to ear when I was supposed to be happy. Even when I was angry, really angry, I had to remind myself to frown and snarl to let everyone know. I could melt into the backdrop, hide in plain sight. And that's why nobody could ever, ever see me coming."

Hessler flipped through his notebook to a single entry, a recorded statement from a _landsknecht _Hans had served with. _He was the scariest man I had ever fought beside. He wasn't really that big or strong. But when he fought—when he killed—it was the most frightening thing. He didn't look angry or scared at all. Just a calm, steely look on his face, you know. And he had that same face, never flinching, never fearful or even angry, when he cut a bandit's head clean off his shoulders._

Hessler's estimation of his guest was rising ever higher by the minute.

"You are very interesting, Hans." Hessler smiled. "In my line of work, emotions are a hindrance more than a help. They drag you down or push you forward into haste, goading you into making spur-of-the-moment decisions and knee-jerk reactions. But you—you are unburdened by emotion. Unfettered."

"Glad I could indulge you." Hans rolled his eyes.

Hessler gestured at Hans' ruined legs. "Well, it's safe to say that your career as a _landsknecht _is officially over." Hans scowled.

Hessler leaned in.

"So what say I make you an offer?"

Hans' brows furrowed. "What kind of offer?"

"I have need of someone of your caliber. Someone unafraid to get things done. Most of all, I have a very specific role for you to fill—and one that needs you to feel _absolutely nothing_. To purge yourself of all emotion. Needless to say, I haven't had much progress in finding people to fill this position. So it's wide open for you."

Hans raised an eyebrow. "I don't know if you're blind or just dimwitted, but you've forgotten something. _I'm a cripple. _I heard your doctor. I won't walk again. Not now, not ever. I won't get better. So unless you want me to swing a broadsword from the back of a wagon, I don't think I'm what you're looking for."

Hessler waved away the insult. "Oh, that can be easily remedied. We have the finest minds here in Teutoburg under my roof, and we have made astounding progress in research and technology. The body's weaknesses and limitations can be easily overcome. But the mind is not so resilient. It breaks easily, it wounds, it festers, it is easily swayed and persuaded and wooed. Which makes your mind—and your lack of bondage to emotion—all the more valuable. It's your mind I need. Do you accept?"

Hans mused. And asked the most important question.

"Why should I work under you?"

Hessler slapped his thigh. "Hah! Ever the pragmatist." He closed the notebook with a snap—he knew Hans was already convinced. What would follow was nothing more than a sales pitch.

"Make no mistake. Employment under me is harsh and dangerous, and you might very well get killed. You will have little to no rest. You will be paid handsomely, of course, but you will find that you don't get many opportunities to spend your small fortune."

Hessler paused to allow his words to sink in. Hans looked unimpressed.

"But unlike the royal courts of those small duchies and little fiefdoms, here you will advance based on skill and merit alone. No notions of nobility or nonsense about being base-born. The son of a baker might outrank you. For the same reason, the sky is the limit. You fight, you complete missions, and your rank increases. You will serve under command. In time, you yourself will command, and others will serve under you—perhaps farmers, perhaps merchants, perhaps even the sons of kings like yourself. I offer you an opportunity to extend your boundaries beyond what any kingdom or any throne can offer you."

Hessler turned around, sweeping his hand across the maps of Suebia and Europa that covered the walls.

"Mark my words: the world is changing. The era of monarchy and royalty is coming to an end. A new world is dawning, and we are poised to take its reins. All that remains is to tear the old one down. Already, there are whispers of revolution and rebellion in Corona, in Auvernia, in Arendelle itself. And when those whispers become shouts—when we fan those embers into a roaring flame—it is then that we will take the power in the hands of kings and dukes, and make them ours."

Hans scoffed. "Fine words. Sounds like a fool's dream."

"No dream, Hans, but a vision of the future." Hessler paced the room. "For too long, humanity has been at the mercy of a small group of people wielding disproportionate power. Whether that power be magic or might—whether those individuals be sorcerers or kings—humanity has been stifled and restricted by this imbalance of power. But the day is coming where we will seize control of our true potential. As a race, and as a species. Where we will free ourselves of this tyranny."

Hessler closed his palm into a fist, his back still turned. "The playing field is being leveled. Once, sorcerers and magicians could wield powers that could bring entire nations to heel. No more. You cannot begin to _imagine _the progress our engineers and scientists have made. The weapons we have constructed; the things we have built. Soon we can match them in power—our ingenuity and cleverness against their magical machinations. And after that, we will tip the scales, and restore common humanity to its rightful place."

Hessler was obviously impassioned. But Hans had heard this sort of 'motive rant' before. Heck, he had once _given _such a speech, to Anna, as she lay freezing to death—and look how well that turned out.

"What exactly do you control? Or are you just a madman with big dreams?" Hans inquired pointedly.

Hessler chuckled. "The better question is, what _don't _we control. Our influence has taken root over _centuries_. We have been here longer than some of the duchies and kingdoms in this land. Our leaders are in every government and council in the realm. Our cadres are in every trade guild, every army, every band of mercenaries. Our reach is immense—we can set in motion events that would see kings overthrown and kingdoms destroyed. We can set up entire dynasties and raise—or raze—cities if we please. Even in your former kingdom of the Southern Isles, more than thirty of your highest ranking officials were trained by me. They serve our cause, not yours."

Hans was shocked. "And how long have you had them there?"

"Longer than you have been alive, Hans. We have our foot on the lever that moves the world. And move it we shall. A new world, not of kingdoms and duchies, but of republics, of confederacies and unions. Where hierarchy and heritage are never more important than competence and vision."

He pointed at one spot on the map. Squinting, Hans recognised it as the duchy of Weselton.

"The kind Duke has proven smarter than he looks. Already, he has thrown in his lot with us. He now organises arms deals and weapon shipments across our operations; including supplying the rebels seeking to overthrow the kingdom of Corona and institute a republic in its place. Already, my spies report that he has managed to secure a stray shipment of top-grade weapons from the far-off Teine Empire. The rebels will be armed. Corona will fall. And with it, a new world will take shape."

Hessler turned back to Hans, slightly breathless from his rant. "You, my boy, can seek your place in this new world. Take the power that has been denied you for so long. For far too long you have been at the mercy of things greater than you are—the Snow Queen's powers, your father's kingly authority, the taunts of your twelve brothers. No more."

Hessler smiled. "When the new world dawns, and the power vacuums need to be filled, you may well find yourself in possession of authority and prestige beyond your wildest dreams. You may well become a king; of course, you will not be called king, but simply names and titles that mean the same thing. _President. High Chancellor. Lord of the Senate. _And you may well look back on your old dreams, a little throne atop the little kingdom of Arendelle, and you will _laugh_."

Hans looked right into Hessler's eyes, trying to study his expressions. Nothing. Hessler's face was like a stone wall that leaked nothing. His smile was a mask, his bared teeth like gates that wouldn't open to scrutiny.

But Hans had no choice.

_Either this, or life in this accursed chair._

"Very well. If you want a cripple to be a part of your little scheme, I'm your man." Hans sighed.

Hessler grinned, his eyes still cold and expressionless despite the breadth of his smile.

"Excellent! I will instruct Krauss to take you back to your quarters, where you will be brought a fine meal and some wine. At precisely four o'clock, you will be taken to the armory."

"The armory?" Hans cocked his head. "Why the armory?"

Hessler smiled. "To rebuild you. And Hans?"

"Yes?"

"_Welcome to the Kestrel Order._"

* * *

***sighs* Well, that was a heavy one! **

**So a new antagonist (or protagonist, depending on which side you're on) appears on the scene! This will not be the last you see of the Kestrel Order.**

**Until the next chapter, mind helping out a struggling writer? I've got some questions for you kind readers, and I'd really appreciate you leaving a review.**

**1\. Do you like the direction the story is taking so far? Are the different plotlines interesting enough to build up to something big, or boring and distracting tidbits that don't contribute to the main storyline?**

**2\. What do you think about character development in this story, both of canon characters and OCs?**

**3\. If you've been reading from the start, has dialogue improved at all over the subsequent chapters? If you're new here, what do you think about the dialogue? And what do you think could be improved.**

**4\. Have I been faithful enough to the source material, in terms of historical setting, character integrity, and speech mannerisms, among other things?**

**Please don't worry; I have my own direction to follow for this story, and I'm not yet running out of ideas. I'd simply like to get a little depth sounding of your ideas, and use them to improve and guide my future writing.**

* * *

**LINE IS FOR EMPHASIS**

**Thanks for reading, and please do leave a review! Until the next chapter, please check out these fanfics: _The Ice Within _by Fantabulous Fantabulism, _Sorry about the Mess _by archtech88, _Reach out to the Truth _and _Snippets_, both by JuneMermaid03. These guys have given me loads of useful advice on writing and characterisation, and I've had the pleasure of reading their well-written work. Hope you enjoy, and leave a review for them if you did!**

**Sincerely,  
****A Long Author's Note**


	13. Chapter 13: The Thirteenth

**Turns out I've been doing this wrong. Every fic I've read so far has had a "Hans flashback" montage, which I've neglected to include. This chapter intends to remedy that.**

**Please enjoy! Any constructive criticism would be much appreciated.**

* * *

**Chapter 13: The Thirteenth**

* * *

**Put this on the background while reading:  
**

_**Icarus**_** by Michael McCann (An amazing track from the _Deus Ex: Human Revolution_ soundtrack)**

* * *

"Prince Hans."

Two knocks, and then the door swung open. The larger guard—Krauss—stepped in, pushing the wheelchair forward like a mobile prison.

"I told you. Stop calling me that." Hans rose from the bed.

He gripped the bedpost for support—it was awkward, no longer having his lower body to work with. Part of him still grappled with the shock of so much loss in such a short time. _I woke up this morning with two working legs. Now I have none._

"Hans, then. We're expecting you down at the armoury. You will meet with Dr. Rassmussen and Lord Hessler." Krauss stepped forward, his beefy arms opening wide.

_That wasn't a request. Merely an announcement._

Hans didn't protest as the guard hauled his body into the uncomfortable metal chair once again. It hurt mentally as well as physically—it made him painfully aware of his new handicap. But the chair gave him mobility—_and now, what I want is to get out of this damn room. _In some ways, a birdcage was better than an aviary if the cage was at least being carried around.

Krauss pushed Hans forward in silence for the next ten minutes. Hans appreciated the silence. _Not exactly in a talking mood right now._

To pass the time, he looked around. The castle was old, maybe ninth or tenth century, but here and there were signs of more recent renovations, perhaps even as recent as a few years ago. The brickwork was solid and sturdy, the archways paved with new mortar. Whoever this Lord Hessler was, he didn't keep this castle for show.

_So this castle isn't some mark of status for a nobleman. It's an actual fortress—it's used for exactly what it was built for._

Krauss brought the wheelchair to a halt in front of a little alcove. The stone arch formed a little doorway, framing a space that measured maybe six by six feet in a curious little hollow.

"Alright. Wait a moment."

"A dead end?" Hans raised an eyebrow.

Wordlessly, Krauss pushed Hans into the little space, spinning the chair around adeptly so that it faced outside the alcove. The steadfast guard then stepped in briskly to take his place beside Hans.

"Move your jaw around a bit," Krauss murmured. Turning to his right, he fiddled with something that Hans couldn't see—there was a little click, and then a sound like shifting metal parts somewhere in the walls. "It helps with the pressure."

_What pressure? Helps with what?_

"I'm sorry, _what? _What are we—"

Then the walls closed in.

Hans jumped in his chair as darkness descended suddenly and unexpectedly. The entrance to the alcove disappeared.

"_What just happened?_" He gasped.

Then he felt himself moving. Downwards. _Fast._

Instinctively, Hans gripped the sides of his wheelchair, his hands wet with cold sweat.

_What is going on?_

"It's called an _elevator_," Krauss remarked coolly from his side. "Sorry about the dark. We'll try to fix that one of these days."

Hans gulped. "What—where are you—?"

"Down."

Hans spun around, glaring at Krauss despite the darkness. "You said you were taking me to the armoury!"

"We are. The armoury is one hundred and thirty-two feet underneath the castle."

Hans wiped his brow with trembling hands. _What have I gotten myself into?_

_Ding._

Hans jumped for the second time. The chime came, again, from somewhere in the walls.

"We're here," Krauss announced helpfully. "Try to keep your eyes closed first. They'll need time to adjust."

"You told me that the armoury was one hundred and thirty—"

"I did," Krauss interrupted. "This elevator travels two hundred feet a minute."

He laid his hands on Hans' chair.

"Now close your eyes."

Dutifully, without choice, Hans obeyed.

Blinding light splashed on his eyelids—he winced. He felt the chair moving forward, and heard Krauss' footsteps echo off stone tiles. There was a bump as they rolled over some sort of threshold.

_This has to be some sort of dream. Or a joke._

"Alright. You can open your eyes."

Hans did. And his eyes opened—wide.

He looked around at a massive complex, one that stretched further than he could see, obscured only by the mass of people that milled back and forth around the floor. Above, the ceiling extended high above his head like that of a cathedral, forming an arcing dome. Footsteps and voices echoed around the chamber, and all throughout a thousand lights illuminated the space in a bright orange glow.

Reeling, Hans struggled to make sense of his surroundings. _How did someone build something like this? Underground?_

"Welcome to the armoury," Krauss said simply. "Now let's get moving. The doctor is waiting in the Aurum Wing."

"Wait, the—Wing? What do you mean, wing? How big is this place?"

Krauss made a show of looking upward, his moustache twitching with a barely-concealed smile. He swept his hand around the cathedral-like space.

"Well, prince, what you're looking at is just the front entrance."

Hans gave up trying to make sense of things.

* * *

"Prince Hans. It's a pleasure."

"I'd appreciate it if you don't call me that." Hans grimaced.

The doctor was a man of middle age and middling height. His hair was only now beginning to grey, and wrinkles had set in the corners of his lips and the side of his nose. But his body was trim and fit, and through the trench coat there was no tell-tale bulge around the midriff that many middle-aged men tried to conceal—and failed.

"Very well." The doctor nodded. "I am Dr. Rassmussen, and I've been assigned to brief you on your—entry into our organisation. I trust Lord Hessler has informed you of what is required of you?"

Hans hesitated. "I don't think he told me anything yet. He said something about, well, _purging myself of emotion_, or something vague like that." He shook his head.

Dr. Rassmussen frowned a little. "Well, I do have to tell you, Lord Hessler wasn't being dramatic or speaking in riddles. It's exactly what it sounds like: this task requires you to completely rid yourself of emotion, in the most literal sense."

He motioned to Krauss, who nodded and laid his hands on the wheelchair.

"First," the doctor continued, "let us talk somewhere more private."

They entered into a side corridor, where the noise and hubbub of the outer chamber faded away.

"I'm a doctor, as you already know," Dr. Rassmussen said, "but in truth I've been involved in a variety of fields in service of our cause. Most prominently, I have been conducting research on magic for most of the past decade."

"Magic?" Hans repeated. "You mean, you're a—_sorcerer_?"

Dr. Rassmussen chuckled. "Not by any means. No, the nature of magic is rather discriminatory—there are certain individuals that are naturally able to wield its power, and I am not one of them. In any case, it makes no difference. I abhor magic in all its shape and form."

"Why's that?"

"Because magic is all about _inequality_. It's power over your fellow man—not by virtue of intellect, or charisma, or exemplary effort—but simply because you were born with it, or given it one way or another."

Dr. Rassmussen turned back to look at Hans, without breaking stride. "It has allowed lesser individuals to dominate greater minds for centuries, keeping them in place by way of fear, admiration, or simple force."

They rounded a corner. "Magic, most of all, stifles human progress. So long as men and women hold magic in high regard—either that, or fear it beyond all else—there will be neither need nor desire to advance the frontiers of human capability. We will simply be trapped in the age of sorcery and fantasy, never able to take a step beyond, into the age where the common man can be master of his destiny by virtue of his own ability, not beholden to any lord or sorcerer or _witch_." Rassmussen wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Magic is not just inequality. Magic is _stagnation_."

Hans noticed that he said _witch _with particular venom, and in that instance he felt the chill of Elsa somewhere in the room.

Hans didn't miss the irony though. _Yet you are in service of a man who calls himself __**Lord**__ Hessler._

"So I've dedicated my life and my art to studying magic for one purpose—to fight it, and thus to destroy it. And you will find, my friend, that we have developed many tools to accomplish this goal."

Dr. Rassmussen pushed open a curtain, and beckoned Hans beyond.

Hans was looking at some sort of chair, completely made of metal, with restraints around the head, hands and feet. Around it were several strange-looking apparatuses that looked like containers with wires attached. It reminded him of some sort of medieval torture device.

"Please tell me I'm not going in that." Hans recoiled.

"Be patient." Rassmussen grinned humourlessly. "I haven't yet explained what you need to do."

The doctor gently removed his spectacles as he took his seat to face Hans.

"What we have learned," he began, "is that magic is tied very strongly to _human emotion_. The stronger the emotion, the more powerful and lasting the effects of the magic, whether that person be victim of it, or its perpetrator. I believe the best example of this principle comes from your encounter with the Snow Queen and her sister—when Queen Elsa lashed out in fear, Princess Anna's heart was frozen, and the effects were so deadly as to result in near-death in a matter of hours."

Rassmussen retrieved a small cloth, and began wiping the lens of his spectacles.

"On the other hand, I think you'd remember how you were knocked back by a blast of frost magic just as Princess Anna froze completely. If, as we know, the magic was powerful enough to shatter the steel of your sword, you should have died on the spot. Instead, you survived with only superficial injuries."

Hans raised an eyebrow. "So you thought that I was somehow—_special? That's_ a bit of a stretch."

"Nonetheless, we postulated based on this and other unrelated incidents," Rassmussen replaced the spectacles on his face, "that should a person be capable of feeling less emotion—or, better still, incapable of any emotion at all—the effects of magic on this individual would be greatly reduced. To prove this, we studied recent cases of accidents or deliberate attacks that involved the use of magic. Our findings demonstrated that all those who managed to survive the effects of magic were somehow emotionally impaired to begin with—either from birth, or by some traumatic event in childhood. They had a profound inability to feel joy or sadness or anger to the same extent as their fellow men. They felt less, and so when magic struck them, they suffered less."

Hans stiffened. "So that's why your Lord Hessler was so interested in me."

_I told him too much, _Hans thought with frustration, as he reflected over all that he told the enigmatic lord of the fortress about his boyhood and his brothers. _Now he's got the leverage he needs._

"Indeed. You demonstrate a remarkable ability to detach yourself from your emotions, and more importantly, you have done so effectively and completely since childhood—no mean feat. Thus, you present an attractive candidate to prove the most important implication of our theory."

Rassmussen paused theatrically. "We predict that if we can free a person of emotion altogether, we may be able to make him immune to magic as well."

"_Immune_ to magic?"

"Granted, it will likely not be as dramatic. Perhaps the effects of magic will be greatly lessened, rather. But such a person would definitely be far more resilient to magical attack than others."

"And you think I'm such a person?"

Rassmussen shook his head. "No. The roots of human emotion run deep; if you were to try to go against Queen Elsa now, and if you were struck down with the full force of her power, you would probably just freeze to death like anyone else, albeit at a slower rate. You still feel, at a very small and subconscious level, but yes. You still feel. And hence, you will still freeze."

"So what do you need me for, then?"

"We need you because you might be the only person who can survive this procedure."

"Wait. _What procedure_?"

Rassmussen gestured to the grim-looking chair. "We have devised a chemical mixture that thoroughly and utterly rids the mind and body of the capacity for human emotion altogether. Once you have undergone this procedure, you will no longer feel."

"And why would you choose me of all people?"

"Because we have found that individuals who are already emotionally impaired, or rather, liberated—such as yourself—provide the best chance of success."

Hans studied the chair apprehensively. "I don't see why a 'chemical mixture' needs a creepy-looking torture chair to go with it."

"Well, our subjects tend to get rather—_violent _—during the course of this procedure."

"You're not selling this very effectively." Hans' eyes darted from the doctor's impassive face to the gruesome instrument. _I don't like this._

"Lord Hessler has also made it quite clear that this is your only way forward," Dr. Rassmussen added, squinting slightly. "You want to be a part of our group, you want to be your own man, you undertake this procedure. Otherwise, we may not proceed."

Dr. Rassmussen's face set into a neutral, disinterested expression. A wall; one of many which were closing in on him, boxing him into a corner, pushing him to where they wanted him to be.

"You're taking advantage of my desperation," Hans accused through gritted teeth.

"On the contrary; I am appealing to your ambition. Your strength and determination have been admirable, but they only carried you so far. And when you needed them most, they failed you."

Rassmussen spared a fleeting glance at Hans' legs—a gesture the former prince did not miss. Hans retaliated with a scowl.

"But let us help you—and you will gain the skills and ability to rise higher than you ever did before. You will be able to defy those who once trampled upon you. You will be able to face the Snow Queen once more, and not only emerge alive, but _victorious_."

Rassmussen reached forth, and gently laid a hand on Hans' own hand. He withdrew it quickly.

"Every journey begins with a single step, Hans. This is yours."

Hans looked down, his fists balling up.

_Everything comes with a price, I guess._

The thirteenth brother of House Westergaard. The duke of a small province in one of the poor corners of the Southern Isles. A desperate man who made a bid for kingship, and failed.

_Must I give up more, to become more?_

A picture flashed before him. The svelte figure of a woman, clad in a dress made of purest ice, channelling unimaginable power through her fingertips as she wore an expression of rage and fury.

_Elsa._

In spite of himself, he remembered feeling something real that day. Something that broke past his typical lack of emotion.

_Helplessness._

Hans gripped the sides of his wheelchair.

_I won't feel that way again._

_I won't feel again._

_I won't. Be. Weak._

He looked up. "You win." He clenched his jaw in defiance.

Rassmussen nodded, smiling wanly. "Excellent. The procedure can be—draining—so if you wish, we can do this tomorrow and give you time to rest—"

Hans shook his head firmly. "I'm as ready as I'll ever be. We do it today. Just tell me what I need to do."

Rassmussen sighed. "Very well."

* * *

"We will insert three large bore needles into your upper arms and neck. They will serve to pump the chemical compound into your body. The insertion will be painful—but make no mistake. It is nothing compared to what follows." Rassmussen didn't pull any punches.

Hans nodded. "Go on."

"Once the compound enters your blood, it will begin to affect your mind. This is where things become dangerous."

Rassmussen snapped his fingers, and instantly two attendants materialised from behind a curtain.

"The chemicals will make your mind replay some of your memories over and over again," the doctor explained, looking back at Hans. "It is your mind's way of fighting off the effects of the drug; since these chemicals will destroy your capacity for emotion, your body will naturally fight back by trying to summon as much emotion as possible. Those memories will be instances of your life where you have experienced the strongest emotions possible, like your grief at the death of a loved one, or an instance where you felt genuine joy. It is likely that you will experience those same strong emotions again."

"What I need you to do," he continued, "is to _resist_. Empty your mind and heart, and feel nothing when these waves of memories come. The slightest bit of emotion, the smallest twinge of your heartstrings—and the memories will begin to repeat themselves in your head. Over and over, like scenes from a nightmare. If you do not overcome the impulse to relive those emotions, if you fail to suppress them, your mind will burn itself out. You will die inside your own head."

All this while, Rassmussen's attendants were twiddling dials and adjusting levers on the chair, preparing it for its intended—_face it, there's no other word for it—_victim.

"If you succeed, however, you will awaken with a renewed mental clarity—we hope. Unburdened by emotion, we foresee that you will be able to think, plan, and react faster and more efficiently than you ever have before. But your true advantage then, never forget, will be a newfound protection against magic."

Hans stroked his chin, scratching absently at the newly-shaved stubble. "Will this give me back my legs?"

Rassmussen shook his head.

"Then I don't see how I'll still be of any use to you."

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. For now, your utmost priority is simply to survive."

The attendants stepped aside. Rassmussen stepped forward towards Hans.

"Now, Hans. Whenever you're ready."

* * *

If he felt trapped while in the wheelchair, Hans now felt absolutely imprisoned in this other, more terrifying chair.

The metal restraints offered him no room to move, no space to flex his limbs or adjust his posture. His head was held in place with a brace that barely gave him room to twitch his neck. Right beside his head, there were frightening noises: the whirring of gears, and the little ticks and subtle movements of some sinister, unfriendly devices.

_Focus. Relax._

He fought down the rising panic, trying his best to ignore the rising pulse that boomed in his ears. He focused on probably the only comforting thing that he could find given the circumstances—Dr. Rassmussen's cool, unhurried, confident voice.

"We will soon be inserting the needles. Please try to relax. Your skin will first be numbed with some herbal mixtures, so you should not feel too much discomfort."

Hans started as something cold and wet rubbed across his wrists and his neck simultaneously. From the corner of his eye, he watched an attendant begin to prepare a large needle, attached by a long tube to something just out of sight. She was dressed in plain white, her hair tied neatly in a bun, and her face covered with some sort of mask. Her eyes were a pleasant shade of brown, and her skin was fair and without blemish.

_Oh, a lovely angel. _Hans caught himself in a cynical mood. _A Valkyrie, to carry me to the underworld._

Rassmussen was speaking again, somewhere out of sight.

"Now, Hans, I must remind you. When the chemicals start pumping, you will be in more pain that you have ever experienced in your life."

Hans rolled his eyes. "Doctor, you speak to a man who has fallen a hundred feet from the walls of a castle into freezing water."

Rassmussen shook his head deliberately. "The agony will be mental rather than physical. It is _vital _that you focus your mind on something else other than the emotional pain."

"Like what?"

"I would suggest concentrating on a singular object, something unattached to any strong emotion, something you can visualise clearly. Any object, inanimate or otherwise. Perhaps in doing so, you can divert your mind from the memories and lessen your pain."

Hans shrugged inwardly. _Guess I could do that._

On his other side, the second attendant—a man—was preparing another needle, just as long and just as menacing.

_An object, something that doesn't make me feel anything special. Hmm._

_Sitron? _The chestnut-coloured Fjord horse leapt to his mind. But then he recalled the happy times they spent riding through the countryside, and his grief when Sitron was taken from him during his banishment.

_No. Too much emotion. Think something else._

_My ship? _He tried to recall the vessel that had carried him to Arendelle. _Was it a brig or carrack? _The details eluded him. He couldn't picture the ship in his head.

_No, too vague. I need something I can picture clearly. Something I know well._

A flash of steel. Sunlight reflecting off a polished surface.

_My sword._

It was gone, now. But Hans could remember it clearly. His steel greatsword was five feet long; a _claymore _of excellent craftsmanship. Even now, every detail of the blade stood out in his mind, from its double-edged blade to the quillons that formed its hilt.

He tried to construct it from scratch, welding it together mentally from its perfectly-crafted tip to the quatrefoil pommel. It stayed in his mind. Solid. Dependable.

_Very well then. You will be my totem._

The blade had served him well in life. It will do so once more in memory.

Hans kept the sword in his mind, endlessly turning it over. He felt some measure of comfort. After all, a warrior always felt more secure with his sword. What did it matter, if the sword was now only in his mind? So too was the threat.

"Alright, Hans. The needles are going in now."

Hans winced as pain flashed down both arms and up his neck. He couldn't help grunting as he felt the cold, metal spine of the needles bore upwards into soft flesh, seemingly without end, as if they were trying to ram it straight into his bone.

_Wait. They might very well be trying to do that. _Hans cursed inwardly.

Then it stopped. Hans wasn't reassured; this meant the real pain was on its way.

"We will pump the chemicals in now. I wish you well, Hans."

Hans flitted his eyes sideways at Dr. Rassmussen, who watched from a distance away. The doctor was too far away from the angle of his vision for him to determine whether the man was smiling or otherwise. Nevertheless, Hans managed a weak smile.

"Likewise, doctor."

Then the former prince of the Southern Isles was seized with pain beyond his worst nightmares.

* * *

"_Nana?_"

Hans ran down the hallway, trailing mud under his little shoes, his eyes full of tears. He stumbled once or twice because he couldn't see where he was going. His pants were ruined—he knew Papa would beat him for that.

It was evening, and orange light was shining through the windows. His grandma would usually be having tea. But she wasn't here today.

"_Nana_?"

He was sobbing now. He tried to stop. Mama didn't like it when he cried. Papa hated it even more; he would beat Hans, and beat him again when he cried even harder. Nobody cared about whether he was sad. They only cared that he didn't show it.

He managed to stop, choking on his own tears. He covered his mouth. _Stop crying. Stop crying. Just find Nana._

Then he heard it again. It wasn't just him.

Someone else was crying.

Hans ran up the stairs. It was coming from Nana's bedroom.

His feet hit the last step, and there he stopped. The door to her room was slightly ajar, and through the crack he could hear it still. A woman sobbing.

"Nana?" Hans put his hand on the door, and pushed gently.

His grandma was sitting at the edge of her bed, hunched over, clutching her chest. She was crying. She had cried so much that the front of her dress was wet with tearstains.

Hans stepped over the doorway. One foot, then the other. Why was Nana crying? Did he do something wrong again? What did he do this time? _I've been good. I've been good for a few days now._

His grandma choked back a sob, and suddenly straightened up. "Hans. Hans. I didn't see you there."

"Nana? What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Nothing's wrong, Hans. It's just—Hans, what is it? Why are you crying?"

Hans rubbed his eyes. He'd stopped crying, but they still stung.

"It was Josef," he mumbled. "He hit me today, called me a _b-_something. He said it was a bad word. _Baster _or something. Said it meant that nobody wanted me."

Nana's eyes widened. She looked like she was going to cry again.

Hans' heart froze in his chest. Why? Did he say something to make Nana sad?

Nana beckoned to her grandson to come closer. Hans took little steps towards the bed, feeling a little scared now. _What's going on? Did I do something really, really bad?_

"Eight years." Nana shook her head, and mumbled again, looking at the ground. "Eight years have I taken care of the boy."

The elderly woman clasped Hans' little fingers in her own wrinkled, liver-spotted hands.

"My dear Hans, they will be sending me away now." She sniffed loudly. "Your dear mama doesn't want me around anymore. They'll be sending me someplace called a sanatorium. I won't be coming back."

"Nana?" Hans shook his head. "Nana, don't go. Don't go!" _Nana's the only one who cares for me! _

"Nana, please stay." He started sobbing again.

A tear rolled down his grandma's wrinkled cheeks. She stroked Hans' cheeks gently, wiping away his tears. "I can't."

A flash of anger lit up her eyes suddenly, and Hans almost jumped back.

"That bitch," his grandmother spat, "has forgotten who brought her into this world. She has forgotten everything I've ever done, to get her to where she is today. If it were not for me, she wouldn't be here right now, Queen of the Southern Isles. I _made _her."

Hans wanted to speak, but his throat dried up and his lips wouldn't open. _Nana used the other b-word. _Why would she say that? Nana always told her grandchildren to use 'nice words' and always got angry when they said bad words.

Nana wasn't talking to him. She wasn't talking to anyone in particular. She seemed, in fact, to be talking to herself.

"I'll tell him, then. Tell him the truth. Let him hate her all his life. My last revenge. She owes me at least this much."

She raised her bloodshot eyes at Hans, who recoiled even further.

"Listen to me, Hans." Her voice was no longer warm and homely, but cold and venomous. "When your mother had you in her stomach, she didn't want you. She tried everything to get rid of you. She always said, _twelve is enough, I cannot bear with another child_. Nothing worked. The day you were born was a day she cursed for all her life."

Nana took a deep, shuddering breath. Her eyes never left Hans'.

"She hated you from the moment she laid her eyes on you. You were a disease that invaded her body against her will, a tormenting parasite that caused her pain. That's the reason why you'll never be good enough. That's the reason Mama avoids touching you as if you were some kind of vermin. That's the reason why your Papa never gives you what you want, never speaks to you unless it's to scold you or tell you to do something. That's why your brothers all treat you like what you are—a _bastard_. Because from the day you were born, nobody wanted you, and nobody ever will."

Hans shook his head. The tears were coming back, blinding him again. The pain in his chest was rising again. _It's not true. _Nana hadn't spoken like this to him, to anyone, before. _It's not true!_

Through the mist of dried tears mixed with fresh ones, Nana was a smear of purple on a dark background. He wanted to say _no_, but his lips were sealed shut, like two dried prunes stuck together.

His grandmother took Hans' hands in her own palms once again. "That's the truth, Hans. Nobody cares for you. Not your father, not your brothers. And certainly not your mother. Nobody except for me, and now you'll never see me again."

Hans started to cry now. His little shoulders shook with each sob, and he didn't bother to wipe the rivulets of tears tumbling down over his cheeks.

Then, abruptly, Nana's eyes softened, and filled with tears of their own. His grandmother suddenly lunged forward and seized Hans in a tight embrace. As Hans felt her breath on his neck, he could also feel warm tears running from her eyes down over his face.

"Oh Hans," she whispered. "If only there was someone out there who loved you."

* * *

"His heart rate is going up!" The assistant yelled, his eyes fixed on the dial. "He can't take any more of this!"

Hans' body convulsed in the metal prison of the chair, his eyes rolling back in his head. Trapped in the labyrinth of his memories, Hans' mind was burning itself out.

"He's going to die!" The second attendant pleaded with Dr. Rassmussen. "We _have _to give him a dose of laudanum!"

"No!" The doctor shook his head vehemently. "If we do that now, we might kill off his mind for good. He's alone now. He has to fight this on his own."

Frantically, desperately, Rassmussen lowered his head next to Hans' ear.

"_Hans_." He was breathless. Hoping desperately that Hans could hear him. "Hans. Focus. Concentrate on something other than your emotions. You _must _pull through."

* * *

"Hey. Hey Josef."

"Andre, did you hear something?" Josef turned to his older brother, cocking his head exaggeratedly. Andre shrugged.

"Hey. Hey Andre." Hans tapped his brother on the shoulder.

Both of them kept walking, resolutely not looking back at him. Hans was only thirteen, and his older brothers had already hit their growth spurt—which meant that he was about half a foot shorter than they were. He hated that so much; if he was easy to ignore before, now he was completely invisible.

The pair rounded the corner of the garden trail, Hans following doggedly behind.

"So like I was saying, Josef, Father thinks that he might get me a sword for my birthday," Andre said smugly. "Can you imagine? Fifteen years old and I have my own sword! Maybe I can ask for a horse as well."

Josef whistled. "You're going to be a knight there, Andre."

Andre slapped his brother on the back. "We'll all be knights. Heroes and proud sons of the Southern Isles! Father said something about making us dukes and barons once we come of age."

Josef grinned. "Can you imagine? Land of our own. We could run our own pieces of the Isles."

"And a fine bunch we'll make, all twelve of us!" Andre laughed.

"What about me?" Hans tried to get a word in.

Andre jerked his head off to the side, staring at the distance. "I could have sworn I heard something."

Josef shook his head. "Windy today. Anyways, you were saying something about twelve—"

"_Hey!_" Hans yelled. "I'm here, you know! I'm a prince too!"

Suddenly, and without warning, Andre spun around, his face black as a thundercloud. Hans looked up too late, just in time to see the heel of his older brother's boot coming down on his face.

_Wham._

Hans hit the ground hard. His ears rang. He tasted fresh blood in his mouth.

_My brother just kicked me in the face._

Dimly, he heard Josef giggling.

"You," Andre growled, "are a _waste_. We would all have been happy if you would just disappear and make yourself scarce but no." He strode forward.

Hans rolled over onto his back and kicked feebly with his feet, recoiling from Andre.

"You are a _bastard_, Hans. You have no place with us, you have no place in the palace, and you have no place in the Southern Isles."

Seized with a fit of violence again, Andre kicked up a spray of dirt into Hans' face. Yelling, he covered his face, desperately clawing the flecks of dirt from his stinging eyes.

"You should've counted yourself lucky," Josef chipped in. "You've got everything you can ask for. So why don't you stay out of our way?"

Josef's voice hadn't yet broken, but he was trying to make it sound deeper, like Papa's. Hans thought he sounded like a frog with a sore throat.

The thirteen year-old retched, and spat hard. A tooth tumbled forth, having been knocked loose by the kick, and stuck to the soil in a puddle of congealed blood and spit.

"Don't follow us." Andre jabbed at Hans with a finger.

The two brothers began walking away. Raking the curls of his hair with his fingers, Andre was grumbling about messing up his hairdo. Josef was still giggling softly, like a stupid schoolgirl.

The same laugh. When Hans stayed up all day and late up into the night for his thirteenth birthday, while the cake melted and the hot chocolate grew cold, when he waited and waited for hours looking out the window for someone, anyone to come and celebrate with him, when Josef poked his head in the doorway—he laughed. He laughed as Hans choked back a sob, and he slammed the door. He was still laughing when, in a tantrum, Hans grabbed the little square cake and flung it to the floor.

_That's it._

Hans had enough.

_No more of this._

Hans drew his knees forward, tucking them in, coiling them like a spring. His palms, raw and blistered, pressed against the muddy ground for traction.

_I'm going to kill them both._

"Andre?" Hans called out.

His older brother stamped his feet, throwing his hands up. "Damn it, _you filthy bastard!_"

Andre wheeled around. "_How many times must I—_"

Hans launched himself forward.

Unprepared, off-balance, Prince Andre fell backwards. His eyes widened in shock as Hans flew towards him, his arms outstretched.

They collided painfully in the air. Andre collapsed to the ground, and in a flash, Hans was on top of him.

"_You son of a bitch!_" Hans shrilled. He swept his hands across Andre's face, causing his older brother to cry out as a pair of gashes appeared on his cheek. Screaming in blind fury, Andre lashed out and struck Hans bluntly in the chest.

Raging, furious, the blood pounding in his ears, Hans felt neither the force nor the pain of the blow. Instead, his vision reddening from both the sand in his eyes and the fury in his heart, he reared up.

Hans slammed his elbow down into Andre's open mouth.

"_Aaargh!_"

Hans struck again. The elbow came down like a hammer. Teeth cut into his skin like pebbles. He pulled back—and felt the teeth still stuck to his arm, embedded like pearly little thorns, ripped out of Andre's fresh bleeding gums.

"_I'll kill you!_" Hans roared, his voice breaking like the snapping of violin strings. "_I'll kill you!_"

He hadn't felt this angry before. It felt good. Liberating. He always kept it in, always controlled his emotions. _Conceal it, don't feel it, don't let it show. _Because one leak, one wrong move, and his brothers would turn on him.

Now it was their turn.

And it felt _so good._

"Hans! Hans!" Josef was shrieking with fear. "You bastard! You stop this! Stop this!"

Josef's knees were shaking, and he was unsteady on his feet. He wasn't sure anymore if he was dealing with his youngest brother, or a feral animal. He edged away, his eyes darting frantically from Hans' animalistic form and Andre's prostrate figure.

Hans heard nothing, saw nothing except for the blood gathering between Andre's ruined teeth. He rose unsteadily to his feet. His brother's eyes were bloodshot and unfocused, and his breathing was getting heavy and fast.

Then Andre spoke, stammering through broken and loose teeth—

"_Bastard._"

Hans roared, and slammed his boot down on Andre's bloody face. Then he stomped again. And again.

"_By all that is holy!_" Josef's nerve broke. He broke off at a run, shrieking for the servants.

Hans wheezed, catching his breath. He stood straddling Andre, who was completely limp. Both of their outfits were ruined. Hans' vest was torn and his buttons had popped. Andre's shirt was shredded by the force of Hans' assault, and his body was caked with mud and filth.

_I'm going to hang for this. _Hans scraped his arms, wiping off the mud and sticky blood with filthy fingernails. There was no way he was getting away with this.

Unless.

Hans knelt down, pressing his knee over Andre's chest. His brother groaned in pain, his face contorting.

Hans grabbed Andre's collar and pulled him closer.

"You can hear me."

Andre's eyes were shut, and he gave no answer. But he was breathing. Noisily, unsteadily, but breathing.

Had Hans been a grown man, that would no longer be the case, but Andre was lucky in a way. Hans had attacked without mercy, but he was still thirteen and he was still small. There was only so much punch a thirteen year-old could pack.

"Now listen to me, Andre."

Hans pushed a finger into Andre's throat, twisting it slowly as if it was a dagger.

"You're going to tell father and mother and everyone else, that you were taking a walk when you fell down the steps to the garden and hurt yourself badly. You were clumsy, and you didn't see where you were going."

Hans pushed the finger deeper into the hollow of Andre's throat, watching his obvious discomfort with some pleasure. "You didn't meet me, and whatever Josef says is a big, fat, lie. You got hurt in an accident, that's all."

Andre groaned. Under the fingernail, a single pearly drop of scarlet blood pooled from a fresh cut.

Hans took a few more deep breaths to clear his head. The red mist was dissipating from his vision. Calmly, he plucked the stray tooth still embedded in his elbow, and flung it away like a pebble.

"Some of them were milk teeth. Papa says you'll grow real ones soon," Hans said calmly. "So don't you worry. You've got bigger things to worry about than losing your teeth."

He leaned in closer.

"Because, Andre," Hans whispered, "you don't want your brothers to find out that you, the oh-so-great knight-to-be, got beaten up by the smallest and littlest brother in your family. They'll never let you live it down. They'll never accept you again."

"They'll always remember," Hans hissed, "that you were beaten by a _bastard_."

It was an insult. He had heard it so often, and it had hurt him every time. But now the word felt good in his mouth. _Bastard_. Like a charm, a reminder that he was an outsider, that he was different from all the twelve idiots he called brothers. That he was a fighter. A renegade.

"So get along now, Andre. And remember. You had an accident. And you didn't see me today."

Hans couldn't resist adding, with a gap-toothed grin:

"I'm invisible, remember?"

He let Andre's head fall back to the dirt.

As the thirteenth prince strode away from the limp figure of his older brother, still blinking away the dirt from his eyes, his arms bruised and throbbing, he walked back to the palace with a newfound confidence. Bold. Strong.

It was worth it, watching from his room, as Andre limped back to the front door while the maids shrieked at the sight of his bloody and bruised face.

It was worth it watching his older brother stammer that yes, he was walking when he fell down, and yes, he got hurt, but no, it wasn't because of a fight.

It was worth seeing Josef try to raise a complaint, to tell on Hans, only to watch in surprise as Andre waved him down and took him aside, hissing at him to keep his mouth shut.

It was worth it, even when his father dragged Hans aside and pushed him into his study. It was worth it even as the King of the Southern Isles struck Hans' back with a wooden switch over and over again, expelling his anger and frustration although he could find no way to link Hans with Andre's predicament.

It was all worth it.

Because for the first time in forever, Hans felt happy.

* * *

"_His heart just stopped!_"

Rassmussen's heart ran cold as his attendant rushed to the chair. Within his metal restraints, Hans had gone still. Ashen grey, like a corpse.

"No breathing, no pulse," the assistant gasped. She checked one of the many dials fixed to the back of the apparatus. "No brain activity."

"Use the galvanic pile!" Rassmussen ordered.

The two attendants nodded. Quickly, one of them produced a pair of scissors and deftly cut through Hans' shirt. The other laid a pair of heavy metal plates on his bare chest.

"Charging up!" The male assistant began to spin a lever at the side of the chair, attached to a cylinder. "Clear!" He threw the switch.

Hans convulsed like a man struck by lightning.

"No pulse! Try again!"

_We don't have healing magic_. Rassmussen watched, his heart racing.

_All we have is human cleverness, and a meagre hope in hell._

"Charging, second level!"

"Clear!"

Hans jerked again.

"_We have a heartbeat!_" His colleague declared. Quickly, the pair stripped the paddles from Hans' chest.

"Still no—no brain activity!" The needle of the dial remained, obstinately, at zero. Hans' mind had ceased to function. The thirteenth prince was now a hollow shell.

Rassmussen closed his eyes. Disappointment and frustration were pooling in his heart, as was rage at their failure, but they were nothing more than minor annoyances compared to the one thought that ran through his head.

_I just condemned a young man to the most painful death a human being can experience._

"Doctor." His assistant was tugging at his sleeve. "Your orders."

_No choice then, _Rassmussen mused. _Either he's already dead inside, or he pulls through. There's only one thing left to do._

"If his mind is dead, nothing we do can save him." The doctor turned to Hans' still form, pale and corpse-like. "If he's still alive in there, his only hope is to endure this and finish the job."

He nodded at the pair of assistants. "So let's do this. Reattach the tubes, restart the pumps. Get the chemicals back in his system."

He looked at Hans' face, contorted in pain, his eyelids half-open to reveal rolled up, bloodshot eyes.

_His pain isn't over yet._

Rassmussen sighed regretfully, and then gave the order.

"_And double the dosage_."

* * *

**I'm no doctor (yet), but somebody needs a lot of therapy. Unfortunately for him, he's getting a whole different kind of therapy by the time this is over.**

**Hans' upbringing, at least in my rendition, is a major factor for "Abandoned Child Syndrome," which is an actual behavioral and psychological problem resulting from either physical or emotional separation from one or both parents. This, coupled with sibling abuse during his formative years, may be the perfect process to result in him developing psychopathic traits later in adulthood. Some reviewers have said that Hans is one of the most evocative portrayals of a psychopath/sociopath in film, possibly on par with Norman Bates from Alfred Hitchcock's _Psycho_.**

**There is, needless to say, a second part of this chapter coming up.**

**As usual, please leave a review and let me know how to improve! If you've any suggestions to help my writing, observations to make, or constructive criticism, I'd really appreciate you sharing your thoughts. Until next time,**

**A Really Long Author's Note**

* * *

**SPECIAL REQUEST**

**I've been agonising over both the cover picture as well as the summary for this story. If any of you have any suggestions or advice to give for the cover picture, or have a particular picture/art piece in mind, please do drop a review or send me a PM! Also, if you have any suggestions to make the summary more interesting and eye-catching, I'd appreciate it.**

**Many thanks!**

**A Really Long Postscript**


	14. Chapter 14: Your Sins will Find You Out

**Truly sorry for the long wait! I've just begun my third year at medical school, and it's been unbelievably hectic so far; on days with hospital postings, I often get up at 5.45 am and don't get back home till 6 pm.**

**Still, my vision and passion for this story have not diminished one bit! My apologies for keeping you hanging. Now here you go; the next installment of the tale, of Hans and his step into the inescapable void.**

**Reviews and comments are very much welcome!**

* * *

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but a dead cellphone, a shovel, and ninety minutes of air.**

* * *

**Chapter 14: Your Sins will Find You Out**

* * *

Hans spun in the void.

Memories whirled through his mind. One after the other, in quick succession. The day Hans met his beloved horse, Sitron. The day Hans met a girl he thought he liked, and later on, the day when she told him coldly that a bastard like him had no business chasing after her. The day he finally got his first sword.

The memories rushed on. The pulse of emotion never relented. Hans felt like his mind was going to burst.

_Focus. _He wrestled for control.

_Sword. Think about your sword. _

Hans struggled to summon the memory of his greatsword, even as the crushing memory of the death of his dog roared through his head.

He did his best to visualise the curves and craftsmanship of the blade, even as he experienced the joy of his first ride with Sitron all over again.

He fought desperately to avert his concentration, as the stinging memory of the terrifying battle at Elsa's palace played through his head once more in startling, agonising clarity.

Hans clung hard to the memory of his blade. He fought against the tide of emotion.

_I've never felt._

_I won't feel._

_Conceal it._

_Don't feel it._

The blade shone forth finally, and Hans saw it before his eyes in all its glory. His beloved sword, shining in the brilliant sunlight, the hilt gleaming in his fist.

Then a shock hit him as he realised that the sword's appearance wasn't a result of his focus and concentration.

It was a part of a memory.

And he knew exactly which one.

_Oh no._

* * *

Hans strode through the blizzard, his arms shielding his face, the steel sword held high.

"Elsa! You can't run from this!"

Just ahead, he could see the slender figure of a woman stumbling through the snow. She had turned to face him, her hands held up. In the high wind of the blizzard, her snowy cape flowed like a wisp of smoke.

"Just—" her voice wavered, almost breaking "—take care of my sister."

_She doesn't know._ Hans lowered his sword, taking a few steps forward. Elsa was no longer backing away. She knew there was nowhere left to run.

He plunged his sword into the ice. It held fast. He strode forward, unarmed—he didn't need a weapon to hurt Elsa anymore.

_The truth_. That was all left to tell.

"Your sister?" He yelled over the howling wind. "She returned from the mountain weak and cold. She said you froze her heart!"

Hans was close enough now. Close enough to see the exact moment that Elsa's heart began to break. Close enough to see the devastation reflected in her bright, blue eyes.

"I tried to save her, but it was too late!" Hans called out. "Her hair turned white—her skin was ice!"

He could read Elsa's gaze. She had given up hope.

So it was time to deliver the _coup de grace._

"Your sister is dead—_because of you!_"

The moment seemed to last forever, suspended in the void. The two figures—the frost-drenched prince and the queen of snow—locked eyes. In her wide gaze of disbelief, something shattered behind those mesmerising cerulean eyes. Something broke.

Hans could almost see Elsa break _physically_.

"No…"

She stumbled away, turning from him.

"No—please, no—"

Elsa fell to her knees.

The wind howled, growing to a crescendo—and then stopped. Hans stepped back, startled, as the mist rolled back and disappeared, and the air became suddenly still. The whirling, billowing flecks of ice and snow that had rained down over the iced-over fjord were—frozen. Stuck in place, fixed in the air like immobile points of light.

Hans looked around at a winter suspended in time. A dead zone, eerily quiet and unmoving.

The storm had broken together with Elsa's heart.

Hans closed his eyes, tasting the air. It felt warmer now, though it was probably because the wind had stopped. But the dreadful chill was still there. Summer hadn't yet returned.

It wasn't enough.

He turned around, slowly, and his roving eyes caught side of his blade still fixed in the ice, a scene out of legend.

_No loose ends._

His hand closed over the hilt. Hans drew out his sword with all the dexterity and finesse of a master swordsman.

He no longer thought of Elsa. Or of Anna. He understood only one thing.

_I'm closer now than I've ever been._

Years of being stepped on by his brothers, shunned by his father, disdained by his mother. Years of being passed over, ignored, pushed aside, talked down to. They would all come to an end.

Ambition rose like a fluttering bird in his chest. Anticipation thumped in his veins.

Hans couldn't resist a smile as he lifted the sword over his head.

The blade swung downwards, demarcating a perfect arc in the air. A brilliant swing, one that Hans' trainer would have been proud of.

And suddenly there was Anna in front of him, her hair completely white, her skin pale, covered with frost, her arm outstretched as if in supplication.

The blade shattered.

Hans flew backwards.

* * *

He stomped down the road, the soft mud causing his feet to sink to the ankles with each step. Above, the rain thundered down without mercy. Hans' shirt and trousers, the only material possessions he had left to his name, were already drenched and beyond repair.

The road to exile stretched on ahead.

"Hans, Hans!"

The former thirteenth prince scowled, and hastened his footfalls. Wet mud had seeped through the cracks in his boots, and his toes were now sticky with dirt and rainwater. He wanted nothing more than to be gone.

"Hans! Wait!"

The footsteps behind him quickened. Andre wasn't giving up.

Hans stopped abruptly, stamping his feet, and spun around.

"It's been half a mile from the palace. Haven't you seen enough of my humiliation?"

His brother doubled over, heaving from exertion, his own suit drenched completely despite the raincoat over his head. "Hans, please, at least listen to me."

"There's nothing more to hear. Nothing more to say. I'm gone." Hans snapped his fingers. "Finished. End of Hans' story. Isn't that what you always wanted, huh, Andre? Seeing the back of me? Seeing me gone? Isn't this enough?"

Andre stared back, his expression pained. "Hans, it's not like that."

He swept back the mess of wet hair from his face, rubbing a dirt-caked wrist over his forehead.

"Hans, I want to help you. I've got people I know down in Auvernia, they can get you settled down. You don't have to end your life this way."

Hans glowered. "I want _nothing _from you. All twelve of you."

Andre shook his head in desperation. "Come on now, Hans. Be reasonable. At least take some supplies. Some gold, from me. Set you on your way."

"Why are you even _doing _this?" Hans stepped closer, yelling above the din of the unrelenting storm. "Why do you care? You hate me. All twelve of you, you've always hated me!"

"I was wrong, okay!" Andre blurted out, then looked away. "I was stupid, and impulsive, and I said and did things I shouldn't have. I fought with you and made fun of you, when I should have been protecting you and looking out for you."

Andre panted with exertion, his hand on his chest. He continued, gasping:

"Look, we're born from the same mother and father, alright, we're brothers. Brothers look out for each other. Let me look out for you now, just this once."

Hans couldn't help noticing that, through Andre's open mouth, two of his teeth were missing. Taken from him by Hans' blows.

Andre wiped his eyes. They were red. Given the circumstances, it was impossible to tell if they were stinging with rainwater or tears.

Hans took a step back, shaking his head in disbelief and disgust.

"I don't understand this," he growled. "I don't understand any of this. Where was all this contrition when I suffered for more than twenty years? Where was all this kindness and goodness just a few months ago when I left for Arendelle?"

"Hans, please, let me try to make things right—"

"There is _no making things right_!" Hans howled over the storm. "I was sent back to the Southern Isles to be punished. I have been punished. Now let me retain some semblance of dignity, and _leave me alone!_"

Hans turned around, facing the road again. "I know what you want, Andre." He started to trudge off again. "You feel guilty. This is just you trying to assuage your stung conscience, so that you can go back home to a warm bed and hot meal and feel like you are a better person than you actually are."

"Hans, brother—"

Hans turned half-sideways. "Do not ever. Call me that. Again."

He took a few steps further, not without difficulty; the mud was thick and viscous.

"I won't be seeing you again, Andre," he called back, "and I don't want to. If you want to help me, take a message back to all of your brothers. Take a message back to Papa and Mama, and everyone who ever knew me."

Hans stopped.

"You, and all of the Southern Isles—"

He raised his fist high in the rain, and extended his middle finger.

"—can _kiss my ass_."

Hans began walking again. Andre knew better than to follow.

As he departed for the endless road ahead, and before the rain drowned out any and all sound, Hans could have sworn he heard Andre call out—

"I'm sorry, brother."

Hans' steps were no longer sure. His sullen mood and deep-seated hatred were no longer as secure as they were an hour ago when he began his trek.

Because he couldn't imagine that someone would even care for him. That Andre would possibly come and say the things he did. That he would even try to make amends.

This was the same brother he once beat half to death. The same brother that had teased and bullied and roughed up Hans every day of his childhood. The one that called him _bastard _and spat in his face.

Was he? Was he the same brother?

_Can people really change?_

Hans' heartstrings had been plucked.

But the road was cruel and cold, and she beckoned him onward into isolation and despair. His thoughts were swallowed up by the uncertainty of the days ahead.

_It doesn't matter anymore. Nothing matters._

It wouldn't have been possible, let alone audible. But for a fleeting second, Hans almost blurted out—

_I'm sorry too, Andre._

* * *

The fire crackled and fizzed as a _landsknecht _absently tossed a handful of dried leaves into its heart. Its flickering light illuminated the weary faces of a dozen other mercenaries, and reflected warmly off the smooth glass of their bottles.

"Two down, and he's still going strong!" The man's frizzled moustache twitched as he clapped Hans on the back, almost making him choke.

Hans lopped up the last few drops and slammed the bottle onto the ground, where it knocked over its empty twin. "I couldn't get drunk on Auvernian beer even if I _tried._ Next."

Cheers erupted all around. Somewhere from the periphery of his blurring vision, a hand passed Hans another bottle.

"Hey, have you guys read these?" A dark-skinned Moorish mercenary held up a bundle of sorry-looking pamphlets.

"What're those, Eon?" A companion slurred. "Newspapers?"

"No, not really." Eon smirked. "You won't believe this, but these are _stories_. Like little books, passed on from village to village, coming out of printing presses by the dozen."

"Didn't think you the reading type," Hans mumbled, smacking his lips, having drained half the bottle already.

"Well, here's what's interesting. All these stories are about _you_."

Hans froze mid-gulp.

Eon thumbed through the pile. "You know, now that everyone knows about what happened—you know, Arendelle, the Snow Queen, and everything—people are lapping up the story and begging for me. It's captured their attention. So riveting! So emotional!"

"So damn boring." One mercenary hiccupped and then fell back, knocked out cold.

"So, naturally, there've been a few writers who have been inspired to write their own fiction. Continue the story. Give the people more of what they want."

His companion snatched a pamphlet out of the pile. "Let me see this." He squinted. "What is this crap. '_Overcome by remorse, Hans returns to Arendelle, seeking redemption for his sins._'"

Hans sprayed beer from his mouth like a geyser.

"I did what?" He choked.

"Oh wait, this one's a bit different. '_For all his boasting and venom, Hans lied to Anna: He did love her after all_. _And so it was that here, under the moonlight, the prince and the princess shared their first kiss.'_"

Hans looked at the man like he had grown three heads and a tail.

"They're calling it _fanfiction. _You know, short for fantastic fiction." Eon passed out the pamphlets to the grinning mercenaries. It didn't matter that half of them couldn't read. The joke was well and clearly on Hans, still coughing up the dregs of alcohol from his airway.

"_Fanatic _fiction is more like it," one grizzled old tracker said, chuckling. "There must be _dozens _of different stories here, from lots of different authors. _Scheisse, _do none of these guys have a life?"

"Lots of them are about you," Eon nodded at Hans, the excrement-eating grin still plastered over his face. "You're a fan favourite among the ladies."

"Good to know." Hans wiped his eyes blearily.

"Let's see what else we have. '_Even after the traitor had been sent back to the Southern Isles, Queen Elsa's heart still yearned after the handsome prince that had captured her attention. And so the Snow Queen found the first blossom of love blooming in the garden of her heart._'"

Hans slapped his face, shaking his head.

"Here's another one. _'Queen Elsa has forgiven Hans, and he has returned to Arendelle. Now, something more than redemption will come his way: love._"

Hans groaned.

"_Elsa reached for Hans' face. Words unspoken melded into the silence as nothing existed but these two hearts, entwined around each other, as the moon rose overhead."_

"You can't be serious," Hans deadpanned.

"Wait wait wait, you all are going to want to hear this." A nearby sell-sword, a former royal guard, cleared his throat. _"On a warm summer's night, Elsa's body burned with desire for the man who nearly conquered her. And so she finally let it go, and crept into Hans' bed for a night of passion._"

Laughter erupted all around.

"Read it, read it!" Someone hollered.

Hans dropped his bottle with a _clink. _"You bastards."

"Alright, here goes. _Slowly, hesitantly, Hans undid the clasp on the back of Elsa's dress. "Oh, Elsa," he sighed, "I've wanted you for so long." Trembling, he ran his hand over her bare, smooth flesh as she shuddered and gasped in the throes of desire, writhing in the agony of pleasure as his talented fingers wandered southwards…"_

"Keep reading, James," Hans growled, "and I will _kill_ you."

"Keep going, my hand wasn't done!" Someone hollered from behind the bushes.

"Oh, come on, it goes on for like pages and pages." James shrugged. "In your defence, Hans, I think it's unrealistic."

"Of course it's unrealistic." Someone belched. "If Hans was—_hic_—really in bed with a girl, the story would last—_hic_—half a page—or about twenty seconds. Maybe twenty-five with oysters."

The gathering exploded into laughter. Quick as lightning, Hans pitched an empty bottle in the direction of the noise and heard a satisfying "ow!" in return.

"It's become quite a popular pairing, you know. _Hans and Elsa_." Eon was chatting to the rest of the group. "They've even given it a nickname: _Helsa. _Yup. _Helsa._"

"_Hellno_ is more like it." Hans thumped his fist to his forehead. "Alright, I get it. The joke's on me. Let's move on now."

"Just out of curiosity…" The old tracker piped in. "Hans, stories aside, have you ever thought about it for real? Like, going back to Arendelle? Making things right? Having a happy ending?"

"Redemption, you know? Everybody loves a good redemption story." Eon picked his nose.

The circle was silent, as all eyes fell on Hans.

Deliberately, unhurriedly, Hans picked up a fresh bottle and drained it all in a single scoff.

"Let me make something clear to you fellows," he slurred as he pointed a finger around.

"The only thought I have about Elsa, Anna, and Arendelle is that _I never want to see any of them again._"

He dropped the empty bottle.

"Now pass me another. I'll need to get stone drunk to forget this nonsense."

* * *

The wind. The rain.

All of reality faded away, except for those two. They howled and raged around Hans, enveloping him in a pocket maelstrom of stinging water and ear-splitting thunderous noise.

His fingers dug into the cracks between the brickwork. His eyes screwed shut. All progress, upwards or downwards, was forgotten—only the overwhelming, primal desire to survive, to cling on, to persevere. Like a limpet to a rock, Hans pressed himself against the damp, slippery wall of Festung Teutoburg, a hundred feet in the air.

His own breath was inaudible in the din. But Hans could feel it warm the back of his throat. It was ragged and harsh, singing with desperation and panic.

Above, the fury of nature crashed down on the countryside.

Beneath, the raging churning white water pounded against the jagged rocks of the lakeside, which gleamed in the flashes of thunder like massive daggers facing upwards.

For all his stoic pretensions, Hans was still a living being.

And like all living beings, he was now afraid.

And then it happened.

The feeling of softness against his fingers, of slow, terrifying movement. Not breathing, not moving, Hans looked on in horror as the brick under his grasp began to shift loose.

_No!_

He flexed his fingers, willing them with desperation to push the brick back into its hollow.

_Stay in there. _

_Please._

The small block slid forward by a quarter of an inch.

The unparalleled swordsman, the traitor prince, the consummate survivor—and now Hans would be undone by the smallest of things. A little brick, small enough to hold in both hands.

Thunder crashed.

The brick came loose.

And Hans tumbled into the abyss.

Arms flailing, eyes open in terror, his throat burning with the intensity of a silent scream, Hans fell. Fell into the rain, falling so fast that the raindrops seemed to fall upwards, the world upended as water began to close in from above and below.

* * *

"Twenty minutes." Rassmussen paced. "Twenty minutes he's been in there."

Neither of his assistants spoke.

_It's not possible to survive. He is dead on the inside._

Rassmussen looked on at Hans' ashen face.

The ends justified the means. That was the creed. Men and women who were bound by the pettiness of morality and arbitrary values were too timid to move forward—but not them. Magic was a disease upon the world. To fight a cruel disease, sometimes the cure must be just as cruel, if not more. As a doctor, no fact rang truer than that.

Yet Hans was now a casualty. Not of magic, but of human cleverness. The faction that fought on the side of humanity had condemned one of their own to a painful and excruciating fate. His memories, played over and over, relived until his mind was an empty mush, his skull a husk.

_Is this worth it?_

A weapon. That was what Hans was to be. An instrument; the first of many. A new breed of warrior, forged in the machinations of science, equipped to battle magic and its practitioners in ways that no knight or soldier could possibly fathom.

So what happens to a weapon that breaks in the forge?

Rassmussen picked up his notebook reluctantly.

"Monitor the brain-pulse dial," he instructed his assistants. "If there is no change in ten minutes, inform me. I will record the time of death."

He looked at Hans.

The former prince was motionless, his face screwed up in agony, his mouth agape.

From the corner of his eyes, a little black bubble of blood pooled. It ran down his cheek, trailing a line of crimson across his pale skin.

_Heaven forgive me. _Rassmussen closed his eyes.

* * *

**Disclaimer: No hate for Helsa fans! Not my thing, but I ain't judging.**

**Anyways, thank you for reading another chapter of this fanfic! Please leave a review letting me know what you think; I take feedback quite seriously, whether positive or negative, and will give weight to your suggestions. Until next time!**


	15. Chapter 15: The Sound of Thunder

**I've been away for far, far too long. Sorry everyone! Hospital days have been long and grueling; I barely have enough energy left to pull myself out of the chair I collapse in. Still, I refuse to give up on this story. To all those who've been following me from the start, I truly apologise for the wait.**

**For now, at least for now, the wait is over.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except a steadily rising heartbeat.**

* * *

**Chapter 15: The Sound of Thunder**

* * *

**Arendelle Castle**

**East Wing Library**

It was four o'clock and the sun was already setting, casting auburn rays over the spires of Arendelle's chapels, inns, and houses. The streets were still relatively empty—curfew was still in place, at least till the next day. The festive atmosphere of yesterday was all but a memory. In the town square, bright yellow purple-and-green flags still adorned the abandoned space, now patrolled by guards, their flaccid faces depicting either Arendelle's crocus or a side profile of Queen Elsa's face—may she reign for ever more.

From the library window, Elsa had a good look at one of the flags with her face on it. It had a neat round hole in its middle, where a spherical bullet had punched through it.

_So let's try to sum things up. _Elsa gathered her thoughts, ignoring the fatigue in her limbs.

_Yesterday, assassins tried to kill my sister._

_Today, some of my guests are talking about war._

_Tomorrow, I might just be going to war._

It was four o'clock.

At four o'clock on Wednesday afternoon, two days ago, she had been having tea with Anna in the drawing room, munching lazily on cardamom and ginger cookies while Anna excitedly gushed about all the people they were going to meet, and how lively and beautiful Arendelle would look.

_How did it all tumble down so fast?_

Almost too fast. Like it was planned. Like their peace and quiet before this was only a false front, a prelude to machinations and plans set in place long before.

As if Elsa was meant to go through all this.

And perhaps, as if she was already supposed to capture a prisoner among the assassins—to interrogate him—and then to let his words influence her decisions.

_Him._

Elsa turned, almost reflexively, towards the door of the library. Just down the corridor, at the end of a flight of stairs, was the dungeon.

_I knew it._

The day before, Elsa had captured a man. A member of the assassin team, someone who claimed that instead of trying to kill Anna, he had tried to save her—and had gone up against his former colleagues to do so. A man who seemed to have deep and extensive knowledge about Arendelle and her neighbours, and knew much—_too much_—about what was going through Elsa's mind.

A man whom Elsa had interrogated and questioned, and afterward—_how she hated to admit it!—_had planted seeds of ideas in her mind. Things she hadn't thought about until now, statements and premises she accepted unquestioningly. Like the fact that the assassination attempt was only the first of many plots. Like the inevitability of war. Ideas that would lead Elsa to fear—and then, in her fear, to act.

Act just the way he planned.

_Him._

She clenched her fist.

Eugene Fitzherbert—the man once known as Flynn Rider—spoke once again from memory, not a day ago.

_The only reason your prisoner is still your prisoner, is that he wants to be there for some reason._

_I know one thing for sure. Nobody has yet built a prison capable of holding Hansel Falkenrath._

Her better judgment screamed at her, shouted itself hoarse against the seed of the stupid, impulsive idea brewing in her mind. But she tuned it out. And anyways, when had she ever listened to her better judgment?

_I'm Anna's sister, after all. It runs in our blood._

_So be it._

Elsa was done playing games of "twenty questions"; done trying to guess and outguess everyone around her. It was time to get to the bottom of things.

_I'll start with asking nicely._

She stomped away from the window, her sleek dress curling in the cold air like wisps of winter wind.

_Then I'll ask again. Not so nicely._

She headed for the door.

_Alright now, Mr. Hansel. Time to tell me what you know._

* * *

**Forest of Corona**

**Twelve miles northeast of the border**

Duke Leopold von Reynard of the Duchy of Weselton shifted in his seat. The staccato rhythm of rain battering the windows of his carriage was punctuated by the occasional distant rumble of thunder.

He checked his pocket watch.

_On schedule._

The route had taken him several miles into the heart of the forest on the outskirts of Corona. Outside, the dark green pastel colour of the thick forest whished past. Only two roads led directly through the forest—each one was hard to find and even harder to navigate. A wrong turn, a badly negotiated corner, and the traveller would be lost and injured in the middle of a dizzying and unlit forest, miles from help.

_No better place for a secret meeting._

Leaning forward, the duke slid back the panel. The thunderous sound of pouring rain leaked through the aperture. Ahead, he could just make out the silhouette of his coachman.

"How much further, Herman?"

"Just a couple more miles, sir," the driver called back. "I'll have to go slow; the road is bad."

The duke closed the panel and rested back on the soft cushioned seat, his small frame sinking into the pliable satin. He kicked his foot under his seat, and smiled as it connected with a _thunk _with the metal case underneath.

_So it's come to this, then. The great trade empire of Weselton is reduced to conducting arms smuggling for outlaws and militias._

Leopold sighed, removing his glasses slowly. Things hadn't been looking up. Two more kingdoms had severed ties with Weselton, citing their disagreement of its 'exclusivist policies,' thereby taking a few very lucrative trade deals with them. The shipbuilders' guild in Weselton had collapsed. The grain shipments were late; the company had to downsize after a sizable number of employees resigned. Many of them said that they "refused to work with Queen Elsa's enemy."

He rubbed the lens of his spectacles with unnecessary fury. _Elsa. _Always Elsa. She continued to cause trouble even after his disgraceful departure from Arendelle and the collapse of the trade agreement between them. He continued to follow the news—greedily and with green eyes, listening in on how Arendelle was prospering and accruing allies and friends across the Northern kingdoms. Eavesdropping on how Queen Elsa was enjoying a period of unrivalled peace and popularity, beloved by her people and her friends.

_These people welcome a witch and sorceress with open arms, while casting out the man who actually did them any good. _

The duke had his differences with Hans, but over time the young prince had gained his grudging respect. He knew what had to be done, and didn't shirk from it. Yet now he was reviled as a villain, while the sorceress who nearly caused the death of an entire kingdom was hailed as a hero and goddess. It was another reminder of how fickle and weak-minded the masses could be.

The memory of a conversation rose in his mind, a late-night talk—over good wine—with a man possessing more foresight, vision, and power than Leopold would have thought possible.

_People don't cherish freedom, _Lord Hessler had said. _They value security, boundaries, rules. And they value those that can provide the same._

Leopold looked out the window at the relentless rain.

_When the summer storm hits, the animals abandon all else and run for shelter. In the same way, when chaos strikes, people will abandon all their pretentions and opinions and beliefs, and seek out protection and safety with the same irresistible impulse. You can be the most hated man in the world. But if you can provide that safety and protection, they will come to you like stricken deer to water._

The arms deal with the rebels of Corona was more than just a way to gain Weselton some much needed funds. It was also to strike the tinder that would ignite the fire of chaos all across the kingdom. _The decisive tipping point, _Lord Hessler had called it. The heat of bloodshed and conflict would drive the panicked masses away from the monarchy and its structures—and straight into the arms of the Kestrel Order. A new nation would be built from the ashes, cast in the mould of their making—and instilled with the same hatred of magic that ran rampant through Duke Leopold's heart.

The end of monarchy.

The end of magic.

The end of a world of fear, mysticism and helplessness.

_Crunch._

Duke Leopold flew forward clumsily, hitting the front of the carriage.

"_Umph!"_

He looked around. Outside the rain was still falling heavily. The treeline was as dense as ever. They were nowhere near the meeting point.

He slid the panel back.

"Herman! Why are we stopping?"

The coachman did not answer.

The duke strained his eyes, looking straight past Herman's shoulder at the mist of rain before the carriage.

He could make out the silhouette of one of their horseback escorts, tall hat and sabre shimmering in the rain. The horse was standing still. Stiff. Apprehensive.

And then the rider flew back, screaming.

Duke Leopold flinched. "_What—!"_

He heard the whinny of the horse as it thundered off into the rain, fleeing in panic. His own horses strained and huffed against the restraints that bound them to his coach. The air stank of fear.

_What is going on?_

"Herman?"

The duke was quiet. It was then he realised that Herman was sobbing slightly. Gibbering and quivering with raw, palpable terror.

The carriage windows exploded.

Instantly the duke was flung to the ground, ears ringing, his arms coming up instinctively to cover his face. His world was spinning in all directions, sounds and screams coalescing into a single unintelligible hum.

Then he hit the ground.

Duke Leopold stretched outward with his hands, and felt soft mud on his fingers and face. He was out of the carriage. On the ground.

The rain stung against the numerous cuts on his hands and feet. His eyes watered. He looked around wildly, and spotted the carriage.

Herman still sat in his seat, limp hands holding the reins of the horses. His young, beardless face was frozen in a gaze of utter horror. On his chest was a smoking wound that had burned all the way through.

Duke Leopold's eyes went wide.

"_The Duke of Weselton!" _A voice rang out in the rain.

The duke glanced around wildly.

A figure was walking out of the mist. A man, clad in a billowing cloak that fluttered and undulated in the wind, a pointed hood shielding his head.

"I am the mage Arthros, and _I have come for you_!"

* * *

**Arendelle Castle, lower levels**

**The Castle Dungeon**

_Bang._

The door slammed shut behind Elsa, shrouding her in darkness.

Her prisoner knelt within a beam of orange light, refracted from the setting sun. There was no sign that he had noticed her entry.

Elsa breathed. Instead of a little puff of warm air, a streak of faintest blue rose in front of her nose. No matter how cold the winter air was, Elsa's body was colder still. Her breath did not heat the air up—it cooled it down.

She allowed anger and frustration to take the place of fear.

_Alright. Time to get what I came here for._

All her teenage years, Elsa had hated isolation, yet embraced it all the same. It was stifling, and it was crushingly lonely, but it was predictable. She would have her meals at a set time, brought to her by either Kai or Gerda—no one else—and then she would be in the library, alone for three hours at a time, undisturbed. When she moved back to her room, Gerda would enter the library and hastily clean away any trace of her _unwanted _expressions of magic. Elsa always knew where she would be going, what she would be doing.

The prison-like routine was hard. Anna, till now, could not understand how she bore it all these years. But now that Elsa was free, finally free, she understood it herself.

Her years of isolation had given her at least some semblance of control. Predictability, routine—vital safety nets and security blankets. Now they were gone. And now that she was in control—

—she never felt so _out _of control.

Of course she was afraid.

_No. No more of this. I'm ending this right now._

Elsa rapped her fist sharply on the wall. The dull thud echoed through the tiny cell.

"I'm here to talk to you."

No response.

"You're going to tell me everything you know."

She strode forward.

"No more games, no more playing with my head. No more riddles or secrets or posturing."

The prisoner had not stirred.

"Do you hear me?"

Elsa's anger was mounting.

"Answer me!" The cry rang out like the cracking of thin ice.

Then she heard it. Barely audible, high pitched and furtive. A wheezy noise coming from beneath the prisoner's unkempt hair.

_Laughter._

She lost it.

Elsa flung her hand forwards, and a massive gust of winter air blew forth. The window pane shook with the force of thousands of miniature snowflakes bursting through the air in a concentrated wave, stripping the walls clean of their grime, painting the floor a garish white-blue in their wake.

The blast struck the prisoner dead-on.

Thrown backwards, the man's body jerked abruptly like a marionette as the unyielding chains snapped him back. He was now leaning back, body limp, held in balance between gravity and tension.

Elsa marched closer. Her eyes narrowed, blazing brilliant blue. Her dress trailed behind her, and it was no longer a flaccid train dragging across the floor. Now it billowed and flowed with the power of her wintry magic, undulating behind her like a wave.

The prisoner did not stir.

"I'm giving you one last chance." She steeled herself. She relished the feeling of control.

Then she heard the noise again, coming from the prisoner.

But she was close enough to hear it better this time.

The man's face was pale. Deathly pale. And his lips were as blue as the light glancing off her dress.

Elsa's second blast died in her palm as the realisation struck her like a counter-blast of hot air.

He wasn't laughing or giggling.

He was hyperventilating.

_Oh no._

Elsa rushed forward.

_He's dying!_

* * *

Time stopped for Elsa. Her eyes were frozen, wide in horror, her whole body paralysed in indecision.

The man's gasping had stopped, fizzled out abruptly like the hiss of a campfire running out of fuel. His body was now suffused with pallor the colour of snow.

She wasn't looking at a dying prisoner, kneeling like a skewered goose attached to chains.

She was looking once again at her sister. Freezing. Icy. Dead.

_I killed him._

The Snow Queen hovered over the body of the prisoner. Her rage was forgotten. Her questions were abandoned. All she cared about now was whether or not she just took a life with her magic—for the second time.

She didn't dare to touch him.

_Oh no._

_No no no no no._

He wasn't moving. His skin was pale. In the light, she could see the scars clearer now—old wounds, corrugated and poorly healed. And a terrible blight on his right hand—blackened, burnt, charred like a corpse's. Icy particles clung to his long hair.

On his chest, a starry symmetrical blue mark showed the exact spot where Elsa's blast caught him in the torso.

Elsa's hands trembled, and her vision began to cloud as her eyes began to fill with tears.

_I—I killed him._

_I failed you, Papa._

_I failed Mama._

_I failed Anna._

_I failed everyone._

Reaching out, half in prayer, half in desperate supplication, she laid her fingers on his cheek.

And seized up as her body lit up with energy greater than a lightning strike.

* * *

Duke Leopold broke for the trees.

His feet had barely made two steps when a sudden force yanked him off his feet. He hit the ground—hard.

_What—_

He looked down. A mass of vines had ensnared themselves around his feet.

"It's no use running, you scum!" The sorcerer walked closer. His voice was sonorous, strained. "You will never defeat the might of magic!"

Duke Leopold wriggled onto his back to face his attacker. "Who—who are you?"

Arthros now stood right over him. His body was lean and gaunt, the cloak far too big for his shoulders. At last Leopold could see under his hood. He had a mousy, unkempt face, cheeks flushed red, glaring at the duke through deep-set eyes.

"I am one of many—of the order of Maleficus!" Arthros thundered. "And we will destroy you and all who follow you!"

"Sorcerers—witches—I should have known—" The duke gasped.

"Silence, scum!" Arthros kicked him in the thigh. The duke winced.

The wizard walked around the immobilised duke, slowly and deliberately.

"You are weak. Like all the others. You hate magic simply because we sorcerers are more powerful than you are. And you try to destroy us." Arthros gave Leopold another kick. "You are maggots, filthy vermin. You've imprisoned and executed hundreds of our kind. Tell me, did it feel good? Did it make you feel stronger than you are, pathetic worm?"

The duke's lip quivered. "What—what do you want?" His eyelids fluttered.

"You tried to kill the Snow Queen many months ago. You thought she would bring disaster."

"I—I—"

"And, guess what," Arthros sneered. "You are right!"

He lifted his hands skyward. Above, a peal of lightning crashed across the sky.

"For behold! The Snow Queen will be our salvation! With her as our guide, the might of our magic will know no bounds. Soon, we all—sorcerers, magicians, wizards, witches—we will take our rightful place upon the throne of the world. And you, you mortal scum, you weaklings—"

He glared at the duke, who shrank back.

"—will be, at last, _at the bottom._"

With a wave of his hand, Arthros summoned more vines which broke from the ground and wound themselves around the hapless duke's arms and torso. His ruined uniform stretched and split under the weight of the greenish appendages.

"Soon, Queen Elsa will join us—nay, _lead _us," Arthros continued his spiel. "And we will be truly unstoppable. The natural order will be restored. And you all will _fall_."

He looked scornfully at the duke. The little man was trembling. His toupee had blown off completely, his spectacles were askew, and his rain-drenched moustache looked like a forlorn furry critter taking refuge above his lip. His bottom lip quivered as he struggled to keep his expression steady, and his eyes darted wildly from the mage to the vines around his body.

_Pathetic. _Arthros felt disgust welling up inside. They were all the same. Weak, spineless creatures with delusions of power—until that illusion was stripped away and they were reduced to what they always were: vermin.

Without magic, people were weak. And nothing was more distasteful than a weak man who failed to know his place.

"I know of what your kind is planning." Arthros knelt down, right over the duke's face. "Magic can open many doors—into minds, into secrets. We know what you are plotting."

The mage struck the duke across the face.

"Tell me what the _Kestrel Order _is!" Arthros barked.

The duke appeared to have found his voice. "I'll—I'll never talk! Never!" He struggled uselessly against the vines, like a rat squirming in a trap. "Keep away!" He squealed.

"Tell me what you are planning!" _Slap—_Arthros' spindly hand raked across the little man's face again. "_What is the Horizon Project?_"

The duke shook his head vehemently, his glasses rattling between his ears. "They—none of your business!" He shivered. "All you have to know is that they will put an end to _people like you!_" He spat out the last three words.

Arthros stretched his hand out again.

The duke's eyes widened, almost going cross-eyed as Arthros' fingers approached his face. "No—_no_! Anything but that!"

The mage cocked his head. _Well this was new._

"You—monster!" Duke Leopold choked. "Don't—don't do it—_stay out of my head!_"

Arthros' brow furrowed. What was he babbling about?

"You're going to read my mind, aren't you?" The duke sputtered. "You—monster! Just kill me already, I don't care! Just—keep out of my mind, you hear me? _Do you hear me? Stay out of my head!_"

The mage's eyes lit up with sudden clarity. _Of course._

There was a spell, moderately complex, that allowed a sorcerer to plumb the mind of another person. Sift through their thoughts and memories. The perfect source of information—raw and untainted by deceit, straight from the mind.

_Why, duke, I wasn't thinking of that at all. _The mage smirked.

He stretched out his hand.

_But thank you for the suggestion anyway._

Gently, deliberately, Arthros removed the duke's glasses and flung them callously aside. Then his fingers closed over the little man's face, muffling his protests.

Between his fingers, he could see the duke's beady eyes darting in their sockets.

Arthros focused.

'Mind reading' was a fantasy. The mind was not a book, with thoughts neatly organised in easily-accessible archives. It was a many-layered labyrinth. Very recent memories and passing flights of thought were at the topmost surface—mere dross, useless information. The deeper one went, the more focused the thoughts would become. Persistent memories, long-held secrets. Like the spirals of a nautilus shell, becoming finer and sharper the closer one got to the centre.

A secret that the duke wanted so desperately to protect—the Horizon Project, the Kestrel Order—those would be at the very heart of his mind.

The spell wasn't exactly painless. _Sorry Duke._

Arthros muttered the incantations.

And he entered the mind of Duke Leopold of Weselton.

* * *

The thoughts whirled around his mind. Idle fragments of recent memories. Faint, half-recalled fantasies—thankfully, nothing too lewd for Arthros' tastes; small, little old men often had crude and base appetites. He dug deeper.

The core. There it was.

At the middle of the duke's mind was a sanctum. Arthros' senses perceived it as a sort of sealed pocket, a locked box, a vault. Visual metaphors and crude perception of an abstract idea—a secret he guarded carefully, something he valued more than anything else.

Arthros sent his mind forward, reaching for this hidden trove. The rest of the memories were useless.

_Maybe when I'm done, I'll wipe his mind clean. _The mage thought with a thrill of grim pleasure. _Leave him an empty shell. A fitting end to such a pathetic creature._

He touched the centre of the duke's mind, and waited patiently for the information to reveal itself.

At first, nothing. Then, words. Fragments of sentences, leaking little by little from some fissure. It took time. The duke's mind had yet to form those abstract pieces into concrete information.

Arthros was still waiting patiently when he saw the white.

He saw it only in his mind. A dull colour—no, not colour at all, but the absence of it. A void. Leaking forth from the duke's mind, seeping across the connection he had forged.

Creeping into _his _own mind.

_No!_

Arthros struggled. He knew that something was wrong. He tried desperately to sever his mental connection with the duke's mind.

It was in vain. To enter the deepest recess of the duke's mind, he had been forced to make his mental link nigh unbreakable. His own mind thrilled with fear—_he had made a mistake._

The white crept across his thoughts. Blotting them out. _Burning _them out.

_What is this?!_

Arthros drew himself out into the physical world. He tried, mind reeling, to _physically _separate himself from the duke. To break the real-world link that connected his hand with the duke's brain.

His body would not obey.

And then he saw them. The fragments, the pieces of the duke's thoughts, coalescing into a single, solid, damning idea.

The duke's voice rang out in his mind. Damning. Scornful.

_You lose._

* * *

The vines fell away, collapsing into simple plant matter.

Duke Leopold gripped the hand of the mage, and with single-minded violence, flung it from his face. The hunched figure of the sorcerer was frozen in place, his face stony and unmoving. A prisoner in his own flesh.

Calmly, the duke retrieved his spectacles, and planted them firmly on the bridge of his nose. Grunting with pain—_definitely bruised in more than a few places_—he got to his feet.

He could tell that the mage was watching him. Because though his body refused to obey, his senses continued to feed him information. He was frozen. Inside his skull, the trap had been sprung; his mind was being consumed by nothingness. Thankfully for the duke—and unfortunately for Arthros—his sanity and senses would be preserved until the very last. That was good. The duke wanted the mage to see what was coming.

Duke Leopold was no longer shivering or fidgeting. His stance was firm, straight, determined. And his eyes blazed with fury.

All traces of the snivelling, cowardly, weasel-like duke were gone. In that instant, the façade dropped, and in the trap within his mind Arthros realised his mistake.

_It was a trick._

"Don't feel bad, you actually scared me there." Slowly, the duke removed his wet, ruined satin gloves. He flung them to the ground. "For a moment, I was really afraid it would not work. That you would see the feint for what it really was. Then again, I got the measure of you the moment I saw you."

Leopold snorted. "Did you honestly think that I would carry information in my own mind—with the threat of mind-reading sorcerers around me—without having some form of _contingency_?"

The duke's voice was different. Colder. Lower.

He tapped his forehead.

"_Memetic virus. _A trap to safeguard the secrets in the deepest part of my mind." The duke peeled a flake of soil from his face. "A failsafe mechanism to protect my thoughts from unwelcome visitors."

Dr. Rassmussen had explained it to him when the duke first undertook the hypnotic procedure—not without trepidation. It was a mixture of fragmented thought and mental connections, hidden within the mind. They were harmless to the duke—as fragments, they were imperceptible. But once someone attempted to access his thoughts from the outside—say, by mind-reading—they would coalesce. The trap would be armed. And the disease would take shape, and attack.

"You see, no disease spreads faster than one that travels within minds. Think of this as a poison in a bottle, with the bottle inside my own head, dangling right above the secrets I want to protect. Once you put your greedy little tendrils of _magic_ inside my head—well, you smashed the bottle." Duke Leopold unbuckled his cufflinks.

The mage's quivering eyes scanned the duke's face. The older man allowed himself the privilege of a smirk.

"The disease spreads into your mind, leaving my own intact. And it turns your own thoughts against you. Makes you think—_impossible things_. Like square circles. Like seeing more than three sides of something. Like thinking thoughts in reverse. And it makes your mind _think _those thoughts. And do you know what happens when the mind cannot make sense of its own thoughts?"

With controlled fury, the duke jabbed a finger onto Arthros' skull.

"It _burns itself out_."

He straightened up.

"All magic comes with a price, Arthros."

The duke stretched his arms.

"It's time to pay yours."

The duke turned away from the hunched figure. And strode towards a metal box, dumped unceremoniously on the damp soil, partially hidden by a clump of grass.

The goods were still intact. The weapons should still be functioning. Which meant the whole mission could still go on, and the transaction could still be made. His coachman was dead, but the duke was no stranger to traveling alone by coach, even taking the reins. _Shouldn't be a problem to get there on my own, as long as I take corners __**slowly**__._

He unbuckled the metal trunk, and lifted the lid, using his body to shield it from the pouring rain.

The new weapons, seized from the rogue shipment of the Teine navy. Strange implements that ran on some sort of fiery powder, weapons that launched death and destruction from a distance. Things that would change the face of combat forevermore.

There were two 'rifles,' long, hollow blowpipe-like weapons with smooth stocks like that of crossbows. And then there were three 'pistols,' smaller, sleeker weapons obviously designed to be used with one hand. Strange instruments.

Duke Leopold plucked one pistol from the case and closed the lid.

He had studied the manuals included with the shipment, committed the instructions to memory. He primed the weapon smoothly, without hesitation. His fingers moved deftly, sliding the catch back, cocking the hammer.

He strode towards the frozen figure of Arthros. The mage's eyes never left him.

Arthros had imagined a scared duke, or a leery, gleeful duke. A weasel. A tiny creature with a tiny mind.

The mage had never seen the duke _angry._

Duke Leopold spoke, drawing the pistol, "I would be more than happy to watch as your brains turned to soup inside your own head."

He glanced backwards.

"Unfortunately, you killed my coachman."

The duke lowered his head, sparing a thought for the man. He was good, dutiful, and reliable. A loss.

"Sadly for you, Herman there was my _nephew_. You made this personal."

Deftly, the duke levelled the weapon and pointed it between Arthros' eyes.

"So I'll just have to let your brains leak out of your skull—"

His finger curled around the trigger.

"—_the quick way._"

_Bang. _

Then a thud as Arthros hit the ground. Unmoving. Lifeless.

The duke walked away, pocketing the empty pistol. In the damp air, the trail of gunsmoke hissed before dissipating.

Weasels are dangerous when cornered.

* * *

Hansel sparked to life.

He remembered feeling cold. Really cold. Colder than it was possible for a man to feel, almost as if there was no _him _to feel the cold, like the frigid chill was all that ever existed and all that would ever be.

He couldn't remember what he was doing before that. There was the prison, and the chains, and the constant aching pain from his side. And then the fever, seizing him with paroxysmal fury, burning from the septic wound that had punctured his insides. The sun, sometimes bright, sometimes dim, the shadows on the walls flickering and dancing as he flitted in and out of consciousness.

_I'm going to die._

Wounds killed, sometimes. More often, it was the infection that killed more surely and frequently.

He tried calling for help. The cry died on his parched lips.

_No one's coming to help._

It ends now.

_Damned lousy room service._

He didn't know how long he was there, languishing feverishly, before the Snow Queen appeared before him. Talking. He couldn't hear her. He couldn't care. All he could focus on, while his captor spoke, was forcing his body through each painful breath, pumping much-needed air into his ruined lungs.

Then the ice blast struck him.

And his body died. He could feel it. The life force ebbing away, the cold spreading through his limbs.

_Brain freeze has got nothing on this._

Ice magic. The woman who was probably the most powerful being in the world had just attacked him. The power that had frozen an entire fjord and raised a castle from the mountain snow was now eating his body whole.

_Bye bye world and thanks for all the fish._

Then she was right in front of him. Sobbing, whispering something incoherent.

_You're beautiful…_

Her skin was smooth like ivory, her eyes shining blue like crystals.

_You're beautiful…_

He was slipping away.

_You're beautiful, it's true…_

Shock does stupid things to the brain.

Then she touched him.

His first thought was that her skin was as smooth as the kiss of an angel.

His second thought was _I just got struck by lightning!_

A burst of power. Terrifying and blazing hot. Lighting up his skin. Where he once felt cold, he now felt unbearably hot. Like he was being burned. _No, like I'm burning everything around me! _Like he was a sun, radiating some unthinkable power into the very air around his body.

He felt the sheer energy flowing through Elsa's fingertips. He saw her, frozen in time, her face still wearing the same pained expression, a tear rolling down her cheek. And he saw, saw as he never thought he would see.

Bright, blazing lines, running up her arm. Like veins, but charting a different course. Like miniature aqueducts of pure energy, channelling magic through her body. In that instant, he saw, and simultaneously, he _understood._

It was as if he could see the way her magic was formed from its most basic elements. How the quanta of energy channelled from millions of points around her body into the central focus in her palm, how it recruited the very air around her hand and changed its essence into frigid ice, how the energy radiated off her in a beam, surging forward with unstoppable power.

He could see _everything_.

_What's going on?_

_What's happening to me?_

Then he heard it.

A voice answering him. A voice, separate from his own consciousness, a distinct entity that he instantly knew was not a part of himself.

A voice that abandoned the persona _Hansel Falkenrath, _and called him by the name he had attempted to run from for so long.

_Why, it's obvious, isn't it?_

_You're not dying._

_You're waking up._

And then he woke up.

* * *

Elsa shrank back with a cry, her heart hammering in her chest. She clasped her hand to her mouth, reeling from the shock even as a wave of heat rushed forth from the prisoner's body.

He jerked forward. His muscles tensed up as his body weight strained against the tension of the chains. As Elsa backed away, she noticed something more.

His skin was no longer pale. It was glowing with warmth, with the colour of health.

Then the chains snapped.

Elsa's heart stopped.

Her hand rose, unbidden, another pulse of frost magic gathering in her palm.

The prisoner got to his feet shakily. The broken length of chains clinked noisily as they dangled from his hands. He was gasping for air. But his breaths were deeper now, stronger.

He took a step, and Elsa braced herself for an attack.

Instead, the prisoner shambled over to the stone slab that served as a bed, and sat down hard, breathing heavily. His hair still covered his face, giving him the appearance of a shaggy, wolfish humanoid.

"What—happened—" he gasped.

Elsa inched closer.

_This is impossible._

Only love could thaw. Only love had saved Anna from certain death. And she felt no love for this man.

So how could he be alive?

Elsa crept closer, her hands tucked close against her chest, her eyes looking keenly on the prisoner.

"Do—do you remember—what happened?"

He exhaled.

"Yeah. I turned into a human popsicle."

Elsa winced. In spite of herself—"Sorry."

Her eyes roved over his bare chest. The imprint of a snowflake was still visible—and _fading. How could it be fading? _She knew how much power went out from her body in that one terrifying moment when she lost control. And yet—here he was. Breathing. Talking. Alive.

"How—how are you okay?"

He shook his head, clearly dazed.

"I don't know what happened. You—you were talking. What were you here for?"

Elsa remembered, and steeled herself.

"You've been lying to me."

"Pardon?"

"You've been manipulating me from the start, haven't you?" She blurted. "Putting your ideas into my head? Getting me to go to war, setting me at odds with Dunwallis? Pushing my kingdom to the brink of conflict, it's been your plan all along."

Her fists balled up. "All I want is for Arendelle to be _safe_. To be a good queen to my people. Is that too much to ask for? Must you and your _kind _always find some way of exploiting or threatening or undermining my kingdom to make yourselves happy?"

She glared accusingly at the prisoner, looking for a response. His head remained slumped, his shoulders heaving with the effort of breathing.

"Okay, okay. Slow down."

She blinked. "What?"

"I'm sorry, just—just thinking out loud." He raised a finger as his voice ending in a strangled whisper. "Alright. From the beginning. _You're now in trouble with Dunwallis?_"

"Yes. I just told you. They want to go to war with the Teine Empire. And they're dragging Arendelle into the conflict. All according to your plan, right?"

"Are any other kingdoms or states joining them?" The prisoner ran his fingers through his hair.

"General Ignacio, of the Maldonian Confederacy."

"Is that the guy commanding a standing army of fifteen thousand soldiers and a fleet of two hundred ships?"

Elsa nodded.

Then the prisoner slapped himself on the forehead. And again. And again.

Elsa stared.

"I am—" _slap _"—a bloody—" _slap _"—idiot!"

He buried his face in his hands. "Of bloody _course _Dunwallis would jump at the opportunity for war. Of _course _Maldonia would happily join hands with them. Of course you'd be dragged into this…"

Elsa stiffened. _Is he insulting my intelligence? _She always thought of herself as patient. But now, the familiar tightness in her chest hinted that her patience was wearing thin.

Then he lifted his head. And she got a good look at his face for the first time.

His bruise had healed well, and without the angry purple blotch obscuring his features, she could appreciate them better. His brown eyes were bright and keen, complemented by a sharp, angular brow, though the dark shadows underneath his eyelids hinted at the discomfort of his ordeal. His stubble reached all the way past the angle of his jaw to his ears.

Pretty much the image of your standard debonair.

He spoke.

"Queen Elsa—I am so, so sorry."

She blinked. _What?_

"You're right, I did this. But I wasn't trying to start a war. I was trying to _stop _one." He slammed a fist down on the stone slab. "And I made a mistake." He bit his lip in frustration.

"I don't believe you," Elsa said flatly.

"I know—_I know you don't. _And normally you shouldn't. But believe me now. You're headed for a lot of trouble, and it'll start snowballing fast." He began rapping his fingers on the stone surface. "Right now this whole thing's a powder keg waiting to be lit."

"What's a powder keg?"

"Oh? Right. I forgot—you don't have powder weapons. Basically, you're sitting on top of a really bad situation that's just waiting for a trigger."

He shook his head again, his hair scattering over his face. "It's my fault. I miscalculated. I got overconfident and forgot about Dunwallis. This is my fault."

"I _intend _to treat it as your fault." Elsa crossed her arms. "You're an enemy."

"Alright, fair enough. But I'm the one you _know_. I'd be more worried about the one you _don't_."

She uncrossed her arms. "Which is who?"

"Henrik Veicht and his mercenaries. The same man who trained me? He's itching for a second round to mess with Arendelle, I know it. Now I don't know if he was behind your whole situation with Dunwallis, but I'm willing to bet he's heard of it—and he's going to act soon."

Elsa walked around the long end of the room, her cape flowing behind her fluttering with each delicate step.

"And he's going to do—what—exactly?"

The man shrugged. "Take your pick. An assassination, a riot, sabotage. Anything at all, as long as it involves getting Dunwallis' people madder than they already are. And reason at all to suspect that _you're _not doing enough to protect your people."

"Excuse me?" Elsa bristled.

"If something happens on Arendellian soil to a foreign delegate, they'll view it as a failure to protect your guests. If something happens to an enemy of the Teine Empire, they'll view it as a double failure—you're not committed enough to fighting their common enemy. I guarantee you'll lose more friends in a day than you made in the past six months."

Elsa bit her lip angrily. "And these are _your _friends."

"Friendship tends to end once you punch a hole in someone's gut."

"I'll alert Captain Frederik. He'll know what to do."

The prisoner shook his head, more forcefully this time. "No. The last time I was thinking of Veicht and his people trying to harm you and the people you care about—for that, Captain Frederik would be perfect for safeguarding Arendelle Castle. Now that Dunwallis is involved, there're too many targets, too many variables, too many opportunities for Veicht to strike. Your castle guard can't spread its forces too thin to cover all the bases—at least, not without compromising your own security."

Elsa scrutinised the prisoner. _Well, he sounds like he's telling the truth. _She checked herself. _Of course he does. He's a natural-born liar. I've no reason to trust him._

She mulled over her options, and grudgingly admitted that he was right. Her entire guard was stretched tight enough as it is, bracing for a second attack against the queen or the princess. To send any forces away on a wild goose chase for a nebulous purpose was pointless.

_What can I do?_

She swept an errant strand of hair from her forehead. _What would Papa do? _Or would her father even know what to do? Had he ever dealt with armed assassins and espionage before, during his peaceful and uneventful reign? Would he have known what to do?

_No. He wouldn't have known what to do. _She sighed, despondent. And neither did she, Elsa admitted.

_No, I'm thinking of this the wrong way. This is a different kind of threat, from a different world. A world far removed from that of queens and kings and princesses. A world of dangerous minds._

She raised her head, and looked at her prisoner.

_The question is—what would he do?_

"So." She stepped closer to him. "What would you do, then?"

Her prisoner glanced around. "Me?"

"Yes, you."

"You're asking for my advice? You just said I'm an enemy."

"I need to know my enemies. And you know them better than anyone. So what would you do?"

The man leaned forward, resting his chin on his hands clasped together as if in prayer. He muttered something inaudible. Then he started speaking.

"I'd try to beat them at their own game. Gather intelligence, get some ears on the ground, and run some interference of my own. Act pre-emptively to sabotage their attempts to sabotage _me._ Maybe cause a little trouble of my own—after all, one way to stop a forest fire is to start another fire close to it. Sucks away the air and drains the fuel."

He rubbed his nose thoughtfully. "If we put Dunwallis on high alert by doing something that scares them, without actually hurting anyone, we might be able to stop Veicht from doing some real damage."

Elsa nodded sceptically. "Go on."

The prisoner scratched his chin. "I'm thinking a little diplomatic incident, something to put Dunwallis on their toes. Get them to hunker down, make it harder for Veicht to strike. Maybe then we'd flush out Veicht's people, and then if we're lucky we can catch them all at once."

Elsa listened. She was under no obligation to take his advice. _Remember. He's a criminal. He does __**not **__have your best interests at heart._

But lots of it made sense. And the more she understood, the more she thought of a simple, stupidly obvious, problem.

"So how am I going to do all this?"

The prisoner paused. Then looked at her. And with some surprise, she thought he looked—sheepish?

"Well, here's the thing." He scratched his head. "I don't think your palace guards are subtle enough to be up to the task. And you can't quite possibly do the job yourself—though I've no doubt you'd try. You need people used to spying. People like Veicht himself. And unfortunately, you've only got one candidate for the job."

"And who would that be?"

He threw up his hands, causing the chains to clang noisily.

"Me."

"No." Elsa's answer came instantly. Her brow narrowed, and her mouth pursed in a straight line. She stood tall and erect, the very image of firmness.

"No. I refuse to allow it. I see where you're going with this. You're going to use this opportunity to break free."

The prisoner sighed. "And go _where_? I've cut all my ties, burned all my bridges. I've probably got a price on my head in every kingdom between here and the Western Sea. Face it, I'm trapped." He wrung his hands. "The way I see it, we could try to work something out. A mutually beneficial arrangement."

He stood up. Elsa backed away, her hand coming up.

He raised his own two hands in response. "Alright, take it easy. Listen, that wasn't a threat. That was an employment application."

Elsa did a double take. "Wait, what?"

"I'd like to work for you. As in, you being my boss and all. No one else will hire me at this point, and I have the skills you need for the job you need done. I was hoping that _me saving your sister _would nab me some bonus points." He shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other.

"What are you saying? You want me to _hire _you?" Elsa scoffed in disbelief. _What is he playing at?_

She looked around the room, her nerves on edge. Was he setting some sort of trap?

"Well, I was thinking more of 'don't freeze me' and 'let me lay low here' as a start. No payment for the first month, a trial-period kind of thing. See if you like my work. I've got excellent references—which, well, I probably burned all records of." He scratched his head. "But, yeah. Basically. What do you say?"

_This is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. _Elsa scowled. But it kind of made sense. _In a way, we both kind of need each other. He needs a lifeline and safety, at least for the time being. And I need these assassins taken care of._

"So—let's say I hire you. What are you going to do first?" Elsa asked.

The man blinked. "Well, you're having the Winter Ball later tonight, aren't you? I was thinking maybe you and I—you know—we could, sort of, go together—"

Elsa's eyes never burned colder.

"To run some surveillance," he concluded hastily. "I can take a proper look at your guests, pick up things your people might have missed. And remember the incident we talked about starting with Dunwallis? I can do something that neither you nor your guards will be tied to."

_This is a bad idea._

Coming down here was a bad idea. Elsa folded her hands, shutting herself back in. But even as she struggled with the implications, she knew how desperate her situation was.

_It can't possibly get worse than this._

And besides, what else was she going to do with this prisoner? Neither she nor her palace was prepared to house an inmate for life. Nor was she prepared to undertake Arendelle's first execution in three hundred years—and over what? He _did _save Anna's life.

Alright. No harm in trying.

"You get one day out." Elsa raised one finger sombrely. "_One. Day. _You show me what you can do, and it better help make Arendelle safer. You try anything funny, and I will _end _you."

The man sighed with relief. "That is _great news_. I promise, I'll do my best, or your money back. Shake on it?"

He extended a hand. She didn't take it.

He withdrew it. "Alright, alright. I get it. Don't worry. I won't bite the hand that feeds me, especially if that hand can freeze me solid like a human iceberg."

"So, when can I start?" He clapped his hands together.

"Right now." Elsa gestured towards the door. "But before that."

She waved her hand. Instantly, a wave of bright blue light seeped forth from her fingers. As they danced across the air, the streak of blue flitted down to the prisoner's feet. He withdrew them hesitantly. The wave of energy bound themselves against his ankles, and gradually became more solid.

He looked down. "Ice skates?"

The light faded to reveal a pair of heavy manacles.

His face fell. "Oh."

Elsa raised her palm for emphasis. "I have control over ice, and I have control over those shackles. One step out of line, and I will _freeze you to the ground. _Are we clear?"

He nodded. "Crystal, icy clear."

"Good. Now we have some explaining to do to my guards."

* * *

"Your Majesty!" The guard's eye was twitching like a mosquito on a hot stove.

"It is my decision." Elsa remained firm.

"Your Majesty, with all due respect, this is a _terrible _idea!" He blurted out, pointing accusingly at Hansel.

"This man," he squealed, "is a _criminal, _a _felon_, a _green-eyed knave and a danger to Your Majesty!_"

"I object," Hansel said flatly. "My eyes are brown."

"Enough." The queen silenced both of them with a raised palm. The guard sputtered, then became quiet. "You will resume your duties. Make sure Anna is safe. I will take care of this prisoner."

The poor man looked like he was going to have a stroke on the spot. Face flushed red, whiskers bristling, he bowed.

"Your Majesty's humble servant." He stalked off, muttering under his breath. Round the corridor, Hansel could hear him shouting at his guards to "protect Her Majesty at all costs!" and to "keep an eye on the scoundrel!"

"Enthusiastic fellow." Hansel shrugged.

The queen looked tense. Her pale skin was flushed slightly red, and stray strands of platinum-blonde hair poked out from her braid. She watched the officer depart, biting her lip gently, sending a blossom of redness across her lip. Hansel still couldn't get over how beautiful she could be, whatever she was doing.

_Idiot. Head back in the game. Now._

He turned his thoughts to his injuries. The near-constant pain was gone. The heat and fever had evaporated. He touched his gunshot wound gently. No pain. The skin was firm and normally warm. Gingerly, he stretched ever so slightly to the side. His body bent naturally, his abdominal muscles enduring the tension without complaint.

_Impossible._

_I should be dead by now._

"Something the matter?" Queen Elsa was staring at him.

"Just stretching my bones," he replied.

Her clear blue eyes looked him up and down. He caught them tracing the ink markings of his tattoos.

"Are those—tattoos?"

He looked down his bare chest at the inscription inked across it. "Yeah."

"What does it mean?" She leaned in closer. In spite of himself, Hansel's heart quickened.

"Um, I got it after saving a guy's life. Turns out he was the leader of a very powerful guild, so he gave me the right to bear this tattoo. Means _a friend of those who ply the trade. _Gets me some benefits."

"Like what?"

"Discounts, mostly." He shrugged. "Membership perks."

Her eyes moved down his arms. "You're in remarkably—good shape—for someone who's been in prison."

"Can't complain. Only been a day."

"How about your right arm?" She pointed at the blackened limb.

"Very long, very unpleasant story. Some other time."

In spite of herself, the queen looked a little sheepish. "I'm sorry if we've been rough. We're just not—not used to having prisoners in the dungeon. It's not what we do."

_Wouldn't expect it to be. _"But the chains and manacles look well-maintained. Your cell's been used before."

"It was," she answered calmly.

"Who's the unlucky chap?"

"_Me._"

Hansel swore under his breath. _Explains so much._

"Sorry about that."

"I'd rather not talk about it." Her eyes turned away from his. "Now, let's get on with it."

"Right." He rubbed the unkempt stubble on his chin thoughtfully. "I'm going to need to clean up. And a wardrobe."

"What for?"

"A disguise. Need to look the part."

The queen appeared to struggle with herself. "There's a room on the second floor. To wash up. And get a change of clothes—men's clothing."

A spark of realisation. _Of course. Probably her dad's stuff. _Hansel made a mental note. _I'm going to need to be delicate about this._

"Lead the way, Your Majesty." Hansel looked over his shoulder. A posse of very pissed-off looking guards were tailing the two of them, wearing some frankly murderous expressions. He decided it would be safer to stick closer to Queen Elsa.

* * *

They ascended the staircase. As she went ahead of him, he noticed her shoes, gleaming from under her cape. _Made of ice. _His breath caught in his throat. Sleek, slender and without blemish, they looked like works of art wrapped around her feet. He couldn't name a single craftsman who could top her in workmanship. And this was a pair of shoes that was, in all likelihood, made in all of five seconds.

The weight around his feet tugged uncomfortably. Around his ankles, an entirely different set of icy footwear wore him down. _Well, can't say that comfort was factored into this design. High heels have got nothing on this sort of soreness._

She was the Snow Queen. Probably the most powerful being alive, one that even now had nations and kings living in awe or fear, or both. A woman wielding magic so powerful that nature itself yielded to her touch, who lived and breathed ice and snow.

_So how did I survive?_

The bullet wound, fatal though it was, was nothing compared to the queen's magical blow. Point-blank, dead centre mass, with nothing in between but thin air and a set of well-toned abs. He should be dead, an icy caricature rooted to the spot in that prison cell.

And then she touched him.

And here he was. Walking. Talking. Alive.

Hansel's mind went to work.

_Two possibilities._

_One. The Snow Queen has healing magic._

Wouldn't be very unlikely. After all, she thawed her sister's heart and saved her from death. Having some intrinsic healing magic would be a better explanation than some fairy-tale plot device of 'the power of love.' Then again, how did it fit with the rest of her magic? Queen Elsa commanded ice, she was one with ice and snow. Her body probably wouldn't be what some would consider, strictly speaking, _human._ What need would she have for magic that healed purely human flesh.

_Possibility two. I have healing magic._

Impossible. Hansel dismissed the thought almost immediately.

Unconsciously, he flexed his right arm. The blackened flesh quivered in response. A parasite, perhaps. _Maybe more friendly. _A symbiotic creature.

It was alien, unnatural. But he knew, more or less, what it was and what it could do. He couldn't remember exactly when he figured out what it could do. Perhaps one of those times when, in the heat of combat, he gripped a weapon tightly and flung it towards his assailant, only to have it explode in mid-air with a shrill, deafening blast. _What kind of magic? _Some form of energy that he could channel through touch, charging objects like they were some sort of reservoir, then releasing that energy all at once. And only with his right hand—that burned, unfamiliar appendage.

But it was unreliable; after his first attempt, he tried it, and tried it again. It never worked, and never did—until about a month later. The same results; the glowing veins, the feeling of energy, then the explosion. Then silence again, and no more luck. It was like each use had drained him completely of whatever store of power he held. The headache and slight fever lasted for a day afterwards. Then he refilled slowly, steadily, like a bucket placed underneath a leaky pipe, and he could almost feel the reservoir filling up inside him, feel his body react in tandem. Given the results, he had very, very little magic in him at most. And after his stunt with the gunpowder in Veicht's face, he was _convinced _that there was none left in his body. Not enough to make a second boom-boom show. And certainly not enough to heal his wounds.

_Besides, it doesn't heal. It destroys._

So how did it make sense that he was now healed of not one, but two deadly injuries?

_You're thinking of this the wrong way._

Hansel started, froze. He did not think that. It was not a _thought_. It was not from him.

_The Snow Queen has healing magic. You have healing magic._

_Those aren't two separate possibilities._

_They are a __**sequence of events.**_ _One after the other._

Hansel looked at Elsa, his eyes wide. Ahead of him, she continued, her walk serene and supremely elegant.

_What?_

The feeling plagued him. The stinging sense of losing control, of not being fully aware. Espionage he could understand. Global politics was something he could grasp, could make sense of. The rhythm of combat was solid and brutal, a dance that one could get better and better at. All these were when Hansel Falkenrath felt most secure.

This wasn't his world. All this magic, this sorcery. A queen who could freeze a world and raise sentient life from snow and ice. Healing that could happen in an instant. Strange magic and unfamiliar voices in his head.

_I'm in way over my head._

Then the voice came again. Stronger this time, not in volume but in force of will.

_The best way to learn the game is to keep playing._

The queen had stopped in front of a set of ornate mahogany doors.

_Good luck, have fun._

"This is it."

Hansel nodded. "Alright. I'll get ready, will be out in fifteen minutes. I assume you've got a razor in there, maybe some styling wax—"

"No." Elsa was trying to sound firm, but her body language screamed anxiety. "No—I mean, I'm going to keep an eye on you. I have to make sure you won't try anything I don't know about."

Hansel stopped in his tracks. Slowly, he could feel his heart sinking down through the floor of his chest and settle down somewhere near his bladder.

"Your Majesty. You understand what I'm asking?"

"Yes. You're going to get a disguise."

"Which would involve me cleaning up and getting dressed."

Elsa frowned. "I'll make sure that's _all _you will do."

"You're missing the point. I need to get _cleaned up. _Head-to-toe. That means taking a bath. And get _dressed_. Change out of whatever I'm in—" he gestured towards his ragged pants "—and _into _whatever I need to wear. Do you—do you understand the _integral part _of _taking a bath and getting dressed_?"

Hansel thought he could see the exact moment when it sunk in for Elsa. Like twin explosions, flashes of brilliant scarlet burst across her cheeks and spread over her face as her eyes widened. Quick as a flash, her hand came up to cover her mouth, her embarrassment thick enough to be cut with a knife.

"Still want to watch?" It was too much fun not to press the moment.

"Yes. I mean, no." She stumbled over her words. "But—but I have to anyway. For the good of my kingdom. I mean, just for safety's sake."

"For the good of your kingdom," Hansel repeated flatly.

_I'm in way over my head._

"Yes. I'm—I'm going to watch you. I mean, keep an eye on you."

"Right." He headed for the doors, and pushed one open gently.

_No time to be mortified, hurry up. _Behind him, the queen followed, stepping into the room. _This is not how I imagined the day. This is the opposite of how I imagined the day. _He forced down the embarrassment, and hoped it would stay down.

_Let's hope something else stays down._

He kicked himself in the head mentally.

The voice again.

_Good luck, have fun._

* * *

**Just want to stop here to give a shoutout to Fantabulous Fantabulism, JuneMermaid03, Shawn Raven, Keep Calm and be Ninja, archtech88, and many more others who've been giving me amazing support and feedback all these months. Many of them are talented authors in their own right, who have woven stories and worlds oftentimes surpassing mine in breadth and beauty. Go visit their profile and give their tales a read. Heartily endorsed!  
**

**PS. Apologies for some OOC moments for the Duke. In my defense, I think it's quite in character for him to be devious enough to feign weakness, only to take action when he has the upper hand. A wounded-gazelle gambit, if you will, a...**

**Ah who am I kidding. I wanted to see the little guy cap a fool in the head with a .50 flintlock pistol and walk away like a stone-cold gangsta.**

**With many thanks,**

**A Really Long Author's Note**


End file.
